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..LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OK 


Received 
Accessions  No.^- 


Shelf  No. 


POETICAL  REMAINS 


OF    THE     LATE 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON, 

COLLECTED     AND    ARRANGE  U 

BY  HER  MOTHER: 

WITH    A    BIOG 


B  V 


MISS    SEDGW 


UNIVERSITY 


"  Death,  as  if  fearing  to  destroy. 

Pausod  o'er  her  couch  awhile  ; 
She  gave  a  tear  fur  those  she  lov«*» 
Then  met  him  with  a  smile  " 


A     NEW    EDITION,    R  L  V  I  S  fc  U 


NEW   YORK: 

PUBLISHED   BY   CLARK,  AUSTIN  &   Co., 

'205     15  IT  O  A  D  W  A  Y. 

•1851. 


\  according  to  act  of  Congress,  m  the  vca/  Ic4).  by 
,^A  &  BLANCHARU, 

3)  the  office  of  the  clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  Distric 
of  Pennsylvania. 


it*' 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

DEDICATION 17 

BIOGRAPHY , 25 

POETICAL  REMAINS 79 

Address  to  my  Muse 83 

Amir  Khan    99 

Chicomico   100 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES  121 

Charity 123 

To  Science   123 

Pleasure 124 

The  Good  Shepherd  124 

Lines,  written  under  the  promise  of  Reward 125 

To  the  Memory  of  H.  K.  White 126 

Stilling  the  Waves 126 

A  Song,  in  imitation  of  the  Scotch 127 

Exit  from  Egyptian  Bondage  128 

Last  Flower  of  the  Garden   129 

Ode  to  Fancy 130 

The  Blush  131 

On  an  JEolian  Harp 132 

The  Coquette 133 

Death  of  an  Infant  134 

Reflections  on  Crossing  Lake  Champlain  135 

The  Star  of  Liberty  136 

.     1  *  03) 


<1V  CONTENTS. 

The  Mermaid  137 

On  Solitude 138 

On  the  Birth  of  a  Sister  139 

A  Dream  139 

To  my  Sister 141 

Cupid's  Bower  . .  ,• 142 

The  Family  Time-Piece  143 

On  the  Execution  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots  145 

The  Destruction  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  146 

Ruth's  Answer  to  Naomi  148 

David  and  Jonathan  148 

The  S'ick  Bed  149 

Death 150 

To  my  Mother 150 

Sabrina,  a  Volcanic  Island,  which  appeared  and  disappeared 

among  the  Azores,  in  1811  151 

The  Prophecy  152 

Prophecy  II 154 

Prophecy  III 155 

Byron 156 

Feats  of  Death 156 

Auction  Extraordinary  158 

The  Bachelor  159 

The  Guardian  Angel  160 

On  the  Crew  of  a  Vessel  who  were  found  Dead  at  Sea  . . .  161 

Woman's  Love  163 

To  a  Lady,  whose  singing  resembled  that  of  an  absent  Sister  164 

To  my  Friend  and  Patron,  M K ,  Esq 165 

On  seeing  a  Picture  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  painted  several 

centuries  since  166 

American  Poetry  168 

Headache 169 

To  a  Star 169 

Song  of  Victory  for  the  Death  of  Goliath  170 

The  Indian  Chief  and  Conconay 171 

The  Mother's  Lament  for  her  Infant 174 


CONTENTS.  XV 

On  the  Motto  of  a  Seal  175 

Morning 176 

Shakspeare    177 

To  a  Friend 177 

The  Fear  of  Madness 178 

Maritorne,  or  the  Pirate  of  Mexico 179 

America - .  187 

Lines  addressed  to  a  Cousin   189 

Modesty .190 

A  View  of  Death   190 

Rob  Roy's  reply  to  Francis  Osbuldistone   191 

To  a  Lady  recovering  from  Sickness   ,  192 

The  Vision    192 

On  seeing,  at  a  Concert,  the  public  performance  of  a  Fe 
male  Dwarf 195 

On  seeing  a  young  Lady  at  her  Devotions 196 

Alonzo  and  Itnanel   197 

To  Margaret's  Eye 199 

To  a  young  Lady,  whose  Mother  was  Insane  from  her  Birth  199 

Song,  tune  Mrs.  Robinson's  Farewell   201 

Song 202 

Twilight   202 

On  the  Death  of  Queen  Caroline 203 

On  the  Death  of  the  beautiful  Mrs. 204 

The  White  Maid  of  the  Rock ; . . .  205 

The  Wee  Flower  of  the  Heather 206 

To  my  Dear  Mother  in  Sickness 207 

An  Acrostic  (Moon,  Sun) 208 

Habakkuk  3d,  6th 208 

On  reading  a  fragment  called  the  Flower  of  the  Forest  . . .  209 

Zante   209 

The  Yellow  Fever 212 

Kindar  Burial  Service — Versified   213 

The  Grave 214 

Ruins  of  Palmyra    214 

The  Wide  World  is  Drear  . .  21,* 


\vi  CONTENTS. 

Farewell  to  Miss  KB 216 

The  Army  of  Israel  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Sinai   217 

Garden  of  Gethsemane 218 

The  Tempest  God  219 

To  a  Departing  Friend 219 

The  Parting  of  De  Courcy  and  Wilhelmine   220 

Love,  Joy,  and  Pleasure,  an  allegory   225 

My  Last  Farewell  to  my  Harp 228 

SPECIMENS  OF  PROSE  COMPOSITION 231 

Columbus 233 

Alphonso  in  Search  of  Learning 235 

Sensibility   »••... 240 

The  Holy  Writings   , 241 

Charity 243 

Remarks  on  the  Immorality  of  the  Stage   244 

Contemplation  of  the  Heavens 245 

The  Origin  of  Chivalry 247 


DEDICATION. 


TO 

WASHINGTON   IRVING,  ESQUIRE. 

I  )EA.R  SIR  : — 

Since  the  publication  of  my  daughter  Margaret's 
Poems,  I  have  been  solicited  to  revive  the  writings 
of  my  lamented  Lucretia.  The  public  has  mani 
fested  so  much  interest,  and  expressed  such  unquali 
fied  admiration  of  their  merits,  and  so  much  forbear 
ance  in  criticising  the  errors  of  these  juvenile  pro 
ductions,  that  I  feel  myself,  in  a  measure,  bound  to 
comply  with  their  wishes.  As  a  testimony  of  my 
grateful  respect,  will  you  permit  me,  sir,  to  dedicate 
this  little  volume  to  you,  with  the  sincere  and  united 
thanks  of  my  family,  for  the  truly  touching  and  ele 
gant  manner  in  which  you  have  executed  your  vol 
untary  task. 

I  am  called  upon  for  a  life  of  my  Lucretia.  Broken 
as  I  am  in  health  and  spirits,  I  am  not  equal  to  the 
effort ;  but  the  kindness  of  Miss  Sedgwick  has  obvi 
ated  that  difficulty,  and  I  am  happy  in  being  able 
to  substitute  the  following  elegantly  written  memoir 
from  the  pen  of  that  highly  gifted  lady,  which  is  in 
corporated  in  Sparks's  American  Biography,  for  the 
broken  and  unconnected  narrative  which  a  grief- 
worn,  and  almost  broken-hearted  mother  would  have 
produced 

07) 


XV1I1  DEDICATION. 

I  have  merely  strength  to  slightly  remark  upon 
the  circumstances  under  which  some  few  of  her 
poems  were  \vritten ;  and  should  the  imperfect  man 
ner  in  which  this  little  volume  is  "  got  up,"  form  a 
painful  contrast  to  your  elegant  work,  I  trust  an 
indulgent  and  discriminating  community  will  make 
every  allowance  for  its  inefficiency.  The  forbear 
ance,  and  even  approbation  in  some  instances,  mani 
fested  by  Mr.  Southey,  in  his  Review  of  her  former 
publication,  to  which  Professor  Morse  prefixed  a 
brief  sketch  of  her  life,  leads  me  to  hope,  that  the 
same  indulgence  will  be  granted  to  this  little  tribute 
of  maternal  love ; — a  feeble  monument  of  a  mourning 
mother  to  the  talents  and  virtues  of  a  darling  child. 

I  have  felt  much  diffidence  in  presenting  these 
manuscripts  to  the  public,  in  their  present  imperfect 
and  unfinished  state ;  but  the  circumstances  under 
which  many  of  them  were  written,  condemned  and 
partly  destroyed  by  herself,  as  if  unworthy  to  hold 
a  place  among  her  papers,  her  extreme  youth  and 
loveliness,  and  the  melancholy  fact  of  her  dying  be 
fore  she  had  time  to  complete  others,  will,  I  trust, 
make  them  not  less  interesting  to  the  reader  of  taste 
and  feeling. 

The  allegory  of  "  Alphonso  in  search  of  Learn 
ing,"  was  written  at  the  age  of  eleven.  It  was  sug 
gested  to  her  infant  mind  by  seeing  a  cupola  erected 
upon  the  Plattsburgh  Academy,  upon  which  was 
painted  the  Temple  of  Science. 

The  poem  of  "Chicomico"  was  written  after  a 
severe  illness,  which  confined  me  manv  months  to 


DEDICATION. 

rny  bed,  during  which  time  Lucretia  made  a  resolu 
tion  that  if  I  ever  should  recover,  she  would  give  up 
her  "  scribbling,"  as  she  called  it,  and  devote  herself 
to  me :  at  my  earnest  entreaty,  however,  she  resumed 
her  pen,  and  the  first  thing  she  produced  was  Chi- 
comico,  prefaced  by  the  following  lines : 

"I  had  thought  to  have  left  thee,  my  sweet  harp,  for  ever; 

To  have  touched  thy  dear  strings  again — never — oh,  never! 

To  have  sprinkled  oblivion's  dark  waters  upon  thee, 

To  have  hung  thee  where  wild  winds  would  hover  around  thee; 

But  the  voice  of  affection  hath  call'd  forth  one  strain, 

Which  when  sung,  I  will  leave  thee  to  silence  again." 

This  beautiful  tribute  of  affection  has  ever  been 
one  of  the  most  cherished  relics  of  my  child,  and  I 
deeply  regret  that  the  irregular  and  unconnected 
state  of  the  manuscript  obliges  me  to  withhold  the 
whole  of  the  first  part. 

The  ballad  of  "  De  Courcy  and  Wilhelmine"  was 
written  for  a  weekly  paper,  which  she  issued  for  the 
amusement  of  the  family.  It  was  dated  from  "  The 
Little  Corner  of  the  World,"  edited  by  the  Story- 
Teller,  and  dedicated  to  Mamma.  After  a  time  it 
was  discontinued,  and  to  my  extreme  regret  de 
stroyed.  The  fragment  inserted  in  the  collection,  is 
one  of  the  very  few  remnants  found  among  her 
manuscripts ;  the  first  sixteen  verses  are  purely 
original ;  the  sequel  was  supplied  by  a  friend,  it 
being  deemed  too  fine  to  be  rejected  for  want  of 
mere  filling  out.  Lucretia's  diffidence,  and  the  ap 
prehension  that  the  circumstances  might  transpiro 
or  the  papers  be  read  by  some  friend  out  of  the 


XX  DEDICATION. 

family,  was,  I  believe,  the  sole  reason  why  she  dis 
continued  and  destroyed  them.  This  mutilated  pa 
per,  and  a  part  of  Rodin  Hall,  are  all  that  remain 
of  the  "  Story-Teller." 

Her  sweetly  playful  disposition  is  strongly  mani 
fested  in  her  "  Petition  of  the  Old  Comb."  She  had 
retired  to  her  room  with  her  books  and  pen,  where 
she  had  spent  several  days.  Feeling  a  desire  to 
see  how  she  was  getting  on,  I  went  to  her  room. 
As  I  passed  through  the  hall,  I  saw  a  sealed  letter 
directed  to  me,  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  I 
opened  it,  and  found  it  contained  the  "  Petition  of  a 
Poor  Old  Comb." 

Dear  mistress,  I  am  old  and  poor, 

My  teeth  decayed  and  gone ; 
Oh !  give  me  but  one  moment's  rest, 

For  mark,  I  'm  tott'ring  down. 

Thy  raven  locks  for  many  a  day, 

I  've  bound  around  thy  brow ; 
And  now  that  I  am  old  and  lame, 

I  prithee  let  me  go. 

Have  I  not,  many  a  weary  hour, 

Peep'd  o'er  thy  book  or  pen ; 
And  seen  what  this  poor  mangled  fornr 

Will  ne'er  behold  again  7 

A  faithful  servant  I  have  been, 

But  ah  !  my  day  is  past ; 
And  all  my  hope,  and  all  my  wish, 

Is  liberty  at  last. 

Mark  but  the  glittering  well-fill'd  shelf 

Where  my  companions  lie ; 
Are  they  not  fairer  than  myself, 

Arid  younger  far  than  I T 


DEDICATION. 

Oh  !  then  in  pity  hie  thee  thero, 

Where  thousands  wait  thy  call, 
And  twine  one  in  thy  raven  hair, 

Tc  shroud  my  shameful  fall. 

My  Hays  are  hast'ning  to  their  close. 

Crack !  crack !  goes  every  tooth  ; 
A  thousand  pains,  a  thousand  woes, 

Remind  me  of  my  youth. 

Adieu  then — in  distress  I  die — 

My  last  hold  fails  me  now ; 
Adieu,  and  may  thy  elf  locks  fly 

For  ever  'round  thy  brow. 

On  reading  it,  I  went  up  stairs  and  found  her  en- 
veloped  in  books  and  manuscripts.  Several  large 
folios  lay  open  on  the  table,  to  which  she  seemed  to 
have  been  referring;  while  books,  papers  and  scraps 
of  poetry  were  strewn  in  confusion  over  the  carpet. 
Her  luxuriant  hair  had  escaped  from  its  confine 
ment,  and  hung  in  rich  glossy  curls  upon  her  neck 
and  shoulders,  while  the  superannuated  comb  lay  at 
her  feet.  As  I  hastily  entered  the  room,  she  mani 
fested  some  mortification,  that  I  should  have  sur 
prised  her  in  tb3  midst  of  so  much  confusion,  and 
throwing  her  handkerchief  over  her  papers,  laugh 
ingly  asked,  what  I  thought  of  the  Petition?  I  ad 
vised  her  to  send  directly  to  the  "  well-filled  glitter- 
.ng  shelf,"  as  I  had  no  desire  to  see  the  curse  de 
nounced  verified,  or  her 

"Elf  locks  fly 
For  ever  'round  her  brow." 


DEDICATION. 


"  Maritorne,  or  the  Pirate  of  Mexico,"  was  writ 
ten  in  Albany,  during  her  stay  at  the  Institution  of 
Miss  Gilbert,  at  a  time  when  she  was  ill,  in  the 
brief  space  of  three  weeks,  while  getting  daily  les 
sons  like  any  other  school  girl.  During  that  period, 
she  also  produced  several  fugitive  pieces.  She  had 
been  absent  from  home  but  six  weeks  when  I  was 
summoned  to  attend  her  :  she  had  then  been  confined 
to  her  bed  three  weeks.  On  the  morning  after  my 
arrival,  she  desired  me  to  collect  the  scattered  sheets 
of  Maritorne,  and  expressed  much  sorrow  when 
she  found  that  some  were  missing.  She  told  me 
with  tears,  that  she  feared  she  could  never  sup 
ply  the  loss,  and  said,  "  Do,  mamma,  take  care  of 
wha.  remains  ;  it  is  thus  far  the  best  thing  I  ever 


wrote." 


After  her  death,  in  her  portfolio,  which  her  nurse 
told  me  she  used  every  day  sitting  in  bed,  supported 
by  pillows,  I  found  the  "Last  Farewell  to  my 
Harp,"  and  the  "  Fear  of  Madness,"  both  written 
in  a  feeble,  irregular  hand,  and  evidently  under  a 
state  of  strong  mental  excitement.  By  their  side  lay 
the  unfinished  head  of  a  Madonna,  copied  from  a 
painting  executed  several  centuries  ago,  and  with 
the  drawing  lay  also  the  unfinished  poem  suggested 
by  the  painting — 

"  Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell." 

In  the  "  Last  Farewell  to  my  Harp,"  the  presenti 
ment  of  her  death,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  is  strongly 


DEDICATION.  XXMI 

portrayed,  mingled  with  the  feeling  of  presumption 
which  she  often  manifested  in  having  "  dared  to 
gaze" 

"  Upon  the  lamp  which  never  can  expire, 
The  undying,  wild,  poetic  fire." 

There  is  something  extremely  touching  in  the  last 
stanzas. 

"  And  here,  my  harp,  we  part  for  ever, 
I  '11  waken  thee  again — oh  !  never  ; 
Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear, 
And  thou  shall  calmly  slumber  here!" 

The  Fear  of  Madness."  — The  reader  will  find 
his  sympathies  all  awakened  upon  perusing  this 
unfinished  fragment  from  the  pen  of  the  lovely  suf 
ferer.  It  leaves  too  painful  a  sensation  upon  the 
mind  to  admit  a  comment. 

I  have  suppressed  a  very  few  of  the  poems 
heretofore  published,  and  have  added  many  new 
ones. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

Sir,  your  very  sincere 

and  obliged  friend, 

M.  M.  D. 

SARATOGA  SPRINGS, 
August,  1841. 


This  new  Edition  has  been  carefully  revised, 
and  the  errors  corrected.  Upon  the  first 
publication  of  Amir  Khan  some  few  stanzas 
were  omitted,  in  consequence  of  the  difficulty 
of  decyphering,  or  some  other  good  cause. 
Those  stanzas  are  here  restored,  according  to 
the  original  design  of  the  author. 

M.  M.  D. 

Saratoga  Springs,  March,  1843. 


BIOGRAPHY 


OF 


LUCREIIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON  was  born  at  Platts- 
burgh,  in  the  state  of  New  York,  on  the  27th  of  Sep 
tember,  1808.  Her  father,  Dr.  Oliver  Davidson,  is  a 
lover  of  science,  and  a  man  of  intellectual  tastes. 
Her  mother,  Margaret  Davidson,  (born  Miller,)  is  of 
a  most  respectable  family,  and  received  the  best  edu 
cation  her  times  afforded,  at  the  school  of  the  cele 
brated  Scottish  lady,  Isabella  Graham,  an  institution 
in  the  city  of  New  York,  that  had  no  rival  in  its  day, 
and  which  derived  advantages  from  the  distinguished 
individual  that  presided  over  it,  that  can  scarcely  be 
counterbalanced  by  the  multiplied  masters  and  multi 
form  studies  of  the  present  day.  The  family  of  Miss 
Davidson  lived  in  seclusion.  Their  pleasures  and 
excitements  were  intellectual.  Her  mother  has  suf 
fered  year  after  year  from  ill  health  and  debility  ;  and 
being  a  person  of  imaginative  character,  and  most 
ardent  and  susceptible  feelings,  employed  on  domestic 
incidents,  and  concentrated  in  maternal  tenderness, 
she  naturally  loved  and  cherished  her  daughter's 
marvellous  gifts,  and  added  to  the  intensity  of  the  fire 
with  which  her  genius  and  her  affections,  mingling  in 
orre  holy  flame,  burned  till  they  consumed  their  mor 

2  *  (25) 


26  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

tal  investments.  We  should  not  have  ventured  to  say 
thus  much  of  the  ruother,  who  still  survives  to  weep 
and  to  rejoice  over  her  dead  child  more  than  many 
parents  over  their  living  ones,  were  it  not  to  provs 
that  Lucretia  Davidson's  character  was  not  miracu 
lous,  but  that  this  flower  of  paradise  was  nurtured 
and  trained  by  natural  means  and  influences. 

The  physical  delicacy  of  this  fragile  creature  was 
apparent  in  infancy.  When  eighteen  months  old,  she 
had  a  typhus  fever,  which  threatened  her  life  ;  but 
nature  put  forth  its  mysterious  energy,  and  she 
became  stronger  and  healthier  than  before  her  illness. 
No  records  were  made  of  her  early  childhood,  save 
that  she  was  by  turns  very  gay' and  very  thoughtful, 
exhibiting  thus  early  these  common  manifestations  of 
extreme  sensibility.  Her  first  literary  acquisition 
indicated  her  after  course.  She  learned  her  letters  at 
once.  At  the  age  of  four  she  was  sent  to  the  Pitts 
burgh  Academy,  where  she  learned  to  read  and  to 
form  letters  in  sand,  after  the  Lancasterian  method. 
As  soon  as  she  could  read,  her  books  drew  her  away 
from  the  plays  of  childhood,  and  she  was  constantly 
found  absorbed  in  the  little  volumes  that  her  father 
lavished  upon  her.  Her  mother,  on  some  occasion,  in 
haste  to  write  a  letter,  looked  in  vain  for  a  sheet  of 
paper.  A  whole  quire  had  strangely  disappeared 
from  the  table  on  which  the  writing  implements 
•  usually  lay ;  she  expressed  a  natural  vexation.  Her 
little  girl  came  forward,  confused,  and  said,  "Mamma, 
I  have  used  it."  Her  mother,  knowing  she  had  never 
been  taught  to  write,  was  amazed,  and  asked  what 
possible  use  she  could  have  for  it.  Lucretia  burst  into 
tears,  and  replied  that  "  she  did  not  like,  to  tell."  Her 
mother  respected  the  childish  mystery,  and  made  no 
farther  inquiries.  The  paper  continued  to  vanish, 
and  the  cnild  was  often  observed  with  pen  and  ink, 


BIOGRAPHY.  27 

siill  sedulously  shunning  observation.  At  last  her 
mother,  on  seeing  her  make  a  blank  book,  asked  what 
she  was  going  to  do  with  it?  Lucretia  blushed,  and 
left  the  room  without  replying.  This  sharpened  her 
mother's  curiosity ;  she  watched  the  child  narrowly, 
and  saw  that  she  made  quantities  of  these  little  books, 
and  that  she  was  disturbed  by  observation  ;  and  if  one 
of  the  family  requested  to  see  them,  she  would  burst 
into  tears,  and  run  away  to  hide  her  secret  treasure. 
The  mystery  remained  unexplained  till  she  was  six 
years  old,  when  her  mother,  in  exploring  a  closet 
rarely  opened,  found  behind  piles  of  linen,  a  parcel  of 
papers,  which  proved  to  be  Lucretia's  manuscript 
books.  At  first,  the  hieroglyphics  seemed  to  baffle 
investigation.  On  one  side  of  the  leaf  was  an  artfully- 
sketched  picture;  on  the  other,  Roman  letters,  some 
placed  upright,  others  horizontally,  obliquely,  or 
backwards,  not  formed  into  words,  nor  spaced  in  any 
mode.  Both  parents  pored  over  them  till  they  ascer 
tained  the  letters  were  poetical  explanations,  in  metre 
and  rhyme,  of  the  picture  in  the  reverse.  The  little 
books  were  carefully  put  away  as  literary  curiosities. 
Not  long  after  this,  Lucretia  came  running  to  her  mo 
ther,  painrujly  agitated,  her  face  covered  with  her 
hands,  and  tears  trickling  down  between  her  slender 
fingers — "  Oh,  mamma  !  mamma !"  she  cried,  sobbing, 
"how  could  you  treat  me  so?  You  have  not  used  me 
well  !  My  little  books  !  you  have  shown  them  to  papa, 
— Anne — Eliza,  I  know  you  have.  Oh,  what  shall  I 
do?"  Her  mother  pleaded  guilty,  and  tried  to  soothe 
the  child  by  promising  not  to  do  so  again  :  Lucretia's 
face  brightened,  a  sunny  smile  played  through  her 
tears  as  she  replied,  "Oh,  mamma,  I  am  not  afraid 
you  will  do  so  again,  for  I  have  burned  them  all;' 
and  so  she  had  !  This  reserve  proceeded  from  no 
thing  cold  or  exclusive  in  her  character;  never  was 


28  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

there   a   more   loving  or  sympathetic   creature.     It 
would  be  difficult  to  say  which  was  most  rare,  her 

modesty,  or  the  genius  it  sanctified. She  did  not 

learn  to  write  till  she  was  between  six  and  seven ; 
her  passion  for  knowledge  was  then  rapidly  develop 
ing  ;  she  read  with  the  closest  attention,  and  was  con 
tinually  running  to  her  parents  with  questions  and 
remarks  that  startled  them.  At  a  very  early  age,  her 
mother  implanted  the  seeds  of  religion,  the  first  that 
should  be  sown  in  the  virgin  soil  of  the  heart.  That 
the  dews  of  Heaven  fell  upon  them,  is  evident  from 
the  breathing  of  piety  throughout  her  poetry,  and  still 
more  from  its  precious  fruit  in  her  life.  Her  mother 
remarks,  that,  "from  her  earliest  years,  she  evinced  a 
fear  of  doing  anything  displeasing  in  the  sight  of  God  ; 
and  if,  in  her  gayest  sallies,  she  caught  a  look  of  dis 
approbation  from  me,  she  would  ask,  with  the  most 
artless  simplicity,  *  Oh,  mother,  was  that  wicked?" 
There  are  very  early,  in  most  children's  lives,  cer 
tain  conventional  limits  to  their  humanity,  only  cer 
tain  forms  of  animal  life  that  are  respected  and  che 
rished.  A  robin,  a  butterfly,  or  a  kitten  is  a  legitimate 
object  of  their  love  and  caresses ;  but  woe  to  the  bee 
tle,  the  caterpillar,  or  the  rat  that  is  thrown  upon  their 
tender  mercies  !  Lucretia  Davidson  made  no  such 
artificial  discriminations;  she  seemed  to  have  an  in 
stinctive  kindness  for  every  living  thing.  When  she 
was  about  nine,  one  of  her  schoolfellows  gave  her  a 
young  rat  that  had  broken  its  leg  in  attempting  to 
escape  from  a  trap;  she  tore  off  a  part  of  her  pocket 
handkerchief,  bound  up  the  maimed  leg,  carried  the 
animal  home,  and  nursed  it  tenderly.  The  rat,  in 
spite  of  the  care  of  its  little  leech,  died,  and  was 
buried  in  the  garden,  and  honoured  with  the  meed  of 
a  "  melodious  tear."  This  lament  has  not  been  pre 
served  ;  but  one  she  wrote  soon  after,  on  the  death 


BIOGRAPHY.  29 

of  a  maimed  pet  Robin,  is  given  here  as  the  earliest 
record  of  her  muse  that  has  been  preserved : — 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MY  ROBIN. 

"  Underneath  this  turf  doth  lie 
A  little  bird  which  ne'er  could  fly, 
Twelve  large  angle  worms  did  fill 
This  little  bird,  whom  they  did  kill. 
Puss !  if  you  should  chance  tu  smell 
My  little  bird  from  his  dark  cell, 
Oh!  do  be  merciful  my  cat, 
And  not  serve  him,  as  you  did  my  rat !" 

Her  application  to  her  studies  at  school  was  intense. 
Her  mother  judiciously,  but  in  vain,  attempted  a 
diversion  in  favour  of  that  legitimate  sedative  to  fe 
male  genius,  the  needle ;  Lucretia  performed  her  pre 
scribed  tasks  with  fidelity,  and  with  amazing  celerity, 
and  was  again  buried  in  her  book. 

When  she  was  about  twelve,  she  accompanied  her 
father  to  the  celebration  of  Washington's  birth-night 
The  music  and  decorations  excited  her  imagination ; 
but  it  was  not  with  her,  as  with  most  children,  the 
mere  pleasure  of  stimulated  sensatjons;  she  had  studied 
the  character  and  history  of  the  father  of  her  country, 
and  the  "fete"  stirred  up  her  enthusiasm,  and  inspired 
that  feeling  of  actual  existence,  and  presence  peculiar 
to  minds  of  her  temperament. 

To  the  imaginative  there  is  an  extension  of  life,  far 
back  into  the  dim  past,  and  forward  into  the  untried 
future,  denied  to  those  of  common  mould. 

The  day  after  the  fete,  her  elder  sister  found  her 
absorbed  in  writing.  She  had  sketched  an  urn,  and 
written  two  stanzas  beneath  it :  she  was  persuaded  to 
show  them  to  her  mother;  she  brought  them,  blushing 
and  trembling;  her  mother  was  ill,  in  bed;  but  she 
expressed  her  delight  with  such  unequivocal  'anima 


30  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

tion,  that  the  child's  face  changed  from  doubt  to 
rapture,  and  she  seized  the  paper,  ran  away,  and  im 
mediately  added  the  concluding  stanzas;  when  they 
were  finished,  her  mother  pressed  her  to  her  bosom, 
wept  with  delight,  and  promised  her  all  the  aid  and 
encouragement  she  could  give  her;  the  sensitive  child 
burst  into  tears.  "And  do  you  wish  me  to  write, 
mamma  ?  and  will  papa  approve?— and  will  it  be  right 
that  I  should  do  so?'  This  delicate  conscientiousness 
gives  an  imperishable  charm  to  the  stanzas,  and  to 
fix  it  in  the  memory  of  our  readers,  we  here  quote 
them  from  her  published  poems. 

"And  does  a  Hero's  dust  lie  here? 
Columbia!  gaze  and  drop  a  tear! 
His  country's  and  the  orphan's  friend, 
See  thousands  o'er  his  ashes  bend  ! 

"  Among  the  heroes  of  the  age, 
He  was  the  warrior  and  the  sage  ! 
He  left  a  train  of  glory  bright 
Which  never  will  be  hid  in  night. 

"  The  toils  of  war  and  danger  past, 
He  reaps  a  rich  reward  at  last; 
His  pure  soul. mounts  on  cherub's  \vinjrs, 
And  now  with  saints  and  angels  sings. 

"The  brightest  on  the  list  of  fame 
In  golden  letters  shines  his  name; 
Her  trump  shall  sound  it  through  the  world, 
And  the  striped  banner  ne'er  be  furled  ! 

"And  every  sex,  and  every  age, 
From  lisping  boy,  to  learned  sage, 
The  widow,  and  her  orphan  son, 
Revere  the  name  of  Washington." 

Lucretia  did  not  escape  the  common  trial  of  pre 
cocious  genius.  A  literary  friend  to  whom  Mrs 
Davidson  showed  the  stanzas,  suspected  the  child 
had,  perhaps  unconsciously,  repeated  something  she 


BIOGRAPHY.  31 

nad  gathered  from  the  mass  of  her  reading,  and  she 
betrayed  her  suspicions  to  Lucretia — she  felt  her  rec 
titude  impeached,  and  this,  and  not  the  wounded  pride 
of  the  young  author,  made  her  weep  till  she  was  ac 
tually  ill ;  as  soon  as  she  recovered  her  tranquillity, 
she  offered  a  poetic  and  playful  remonstrance,  which 
set  the  matter  at  rest,  and  put  an  end  to  all  future 
question  of  the  authenticity  of  her  productions.  Be 
fore  she  was  twelve  years  old.  she  had  read  the  Eng 
lish  poets.  •*  The  English  poets,"  says  Southey,  in 
his  review  of  Miss  Davidson's  poems,  though  a  vague 
term,  was  a  wholesome  course,  for  such  a  mind.  She 
had  read,  beside,  much  history,  sacred  and  profane, 
novels,  and  other  works  of  imagination. — Dramatic 
works  were  particularly  attractive  to  her ;  her  devo 
tion  to  Shakspeare  is  expressed  in  an  address  to  him 
written  about  this  time,  from  which  we  extract  the 
following  stanza : — 

"  Heaven,  in  compassion  to  man's  erring  heart, 
Gave  thee  of  virtue,  then  of  vice  a  part, 
Lest  we  in  wonder  here,  should  bow  before  thee, 
Break  God's  commandment,  worship  and  adore  thee." 

Ordinary  romances,  and  even  those  highly  wrought 
fictions,  that  without  any  type  in  nature  have  such  a 
mischievous  charm  for  most  imaginative  young  per 
sons,  she  instinctively  rejected ;  her  healthy  appetite, 
keen  as  it  was,  was  under  the  government  of  a  pure 
and  sound  nature.  Her  mother,  always  aware  of  the 
worth  of  the  gem  committed  to  her  keeping,  amidst 
her  sufferings  from  ill  health  kept  a  watchful  eye  on 
her  child,  directed  her  pursuits,  and  sympathized  in 
all  her  little  school  labours  and  trials;  she  perceived 
that  Lucretia  was  growing  pale  and  sickly  over  her 
studies,  and  she  judiciously  withdrew  her,  for  a  time, 
from  school.  She  was  soon  rewarded  for  this  wise 
measure  by  hearing  her  child's  bounding  step  as  she 


32  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

approached  her  sick  room,  and  seeing  the  cheek  bent 
over  her  pillow  blooming  with  returning  health. 
How  miserably  mistaken  are  those,  who  fancy  that 
all  the  child's  lessons  must  be  learned  from  the  school- 
book  and  school-room  !  This  apt  pupil  of  nature  had 
only  changed  her  books  and  her  master ;  now,  she  sat 
at  the  feet  of  the  great  teacher,  nature,  and  read,  and 
listened,  and  thought,  as  she  wandered  along  the 
Saranac,  or  contemplated  the  varying  aspects  of  Cum 
berland  Bay.  She  would  sit  for  hours  and  watch  the 
progress  of  a  thunder-storm,  from  the  first  gathering 
of  the  clouds,  to  the  farewell  smile  of  the  rainbow. 
We  give  a  specimen  of  the  impression  of  these  studies 
in  the  following  extract  from  her  unpublished  poems: 

TWILIGHT. 

How  sweet  the  hour  when  daylight  blends 

With  the  pensive  shadows  on  evening's  breast ! 

And  dear  to  this  heart  is  the  pleasure  it  lends, 
For  't  is  like  the  departure  of  saints  to  their  rest 

Oh  !  't  is  sweet,  Saranac,  on  thy  lov'd  banks  to  stray, 
To  watch  the  last  day-beam  dance  light  o'er  thy  wave, 

To  mark  the  white  skiff  as  it  skims  o'er  the  Bay, 
Or  heedlessly  bounds  o'er  the  warrior's  deep  grave.* 

Oh !  't  is  sweet  to  a  heart,  unentangled  and  light, 

When  with  hope's  brilliant  prospects  the  fancy  is  blest, 

To  pause  'mid  its  day-dreams  so  witchingly  bright, 
And  mark  the  last  sunbeams  while  sinking  to  rest. 

The  following,  from  her  unpublished  poems,  is  the 
result  of  the  same  pensive  meditations. 

*  Cumberland  Bay  was  the  scene  of  a  battle  during  the  last 
war. 


BIOGRAPHY.  83 


THE    EVENING    SPIRIT. 

When  the  pale  moon  is  shining  bright, 

And  nought  disturbs  the  gloom  of  night, 

'Tis  then  upon  yon  level  green, 

From  which  St.  Clair's  dark  heights  are  seen, 

The  Evening  Spirit  glides  along, 

And  chaunts  her  melancholy  song ; 

Or  leans  upon  a  snowy  cloud, 

And  its  white  skirts  her  figure  shroud. 

By -zephyrs  light  she's  wafted  far, 

And  contemplates  the  northern  star, 

Or  gazes  from  her  silvery  throne, 

On  that  pale  queen,  the  silent  moon. 

Who  is  the  Evening  Spirit  fair, 

That  hovers  o'er  thy  walls,  St.  Glair! 

Who  is  it,  that  with  footstep  light, 

Breathes  the  calm  silence  of  the  night  1 

Ask  the  light  zephyr  who  conveys 

Her  fairy  figure  o'er  the  waves ; 

Ask  yon  bright  fleecy  cloud  of  night, 

Ask  yon  pale  planet's  silver  light, 

Why  does  the  Evening  Spirit  fair 

Sail  o'er  the  walls  of  dark  St.  Clair! 

In  her  thirteenth  year  the  clouds  seemed  heavily 
gathering  over  her  morning ;  her  mother,  who  had 
hitherto  been  her  guide  and  companion,  could  no 
longer  extend  to  her  child  the  sympathy  and  en 
couragement  which  she  needed.  Lucretia  was 
oppressed  with  the  apprehension  of  losing  this  fond 
parent,  who  for  weeks  and  months,  seemed  upon  the 
verge  of  the  grave.  There  are  among  her  unpub 
lished  poems,  some  touching  lines  to  her  mother 
written  I  believe  about  this  time,  concluding  thus : — 

**  Hang  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow, 

That  weeps  o'er  every  passing  wave; 
This  life  is  but  a  restless  pillow, 
There's  calm  and  peace  beyond  the 
3 


34  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

As  Mrs.  Davidson's  health  gradually  amended, 
with  it  returned  her  desire  to  give  her  daughter  every 
means  in  her  power  to  aid  the  development  of  her 
extraordinary  genius.  Her  extreme  sensibility  and 
delicate  health,  subjected  her,  at  times,  to  depres 
sions  of  spirit ;  but  she  had  nothing  of  the  morbid 
dejection,  the  exclusiveness,  and  hostility  to  the  world, 
that  are  the  results  of  self-exaggeration,  selfishness, 
and  self-idolatry,  and  not  the  natural  offspring  of 
genius  and  true  feeling,  which,  in  their  heakhy  state, 
are  pure  and  living  fountains  flowing  out  in  abundant 
streams  of  love  and  kindness.* 

Indulgent  as  Mrs.  Davidson  was,  she  was  too  wise 
to  permit  Lucretia  to  forego  entirely  the  customary 
employments  of  her  sex.  When  engaged  with  these 
it  seems  she  sometimes  played  truant  with  the  muse ; 
once  she  had  promised  to  do  a  sewing  task,  and  had 
eagerly  run  off  for  her  work-basket ;  she  loitered,  and 
when  she  returned,  she  found  her  mother  had  done 
the  work,  and  that  there  was  a  shade  of  just  displeasure 
on  her  countenance.  "  Oh  mamma  !"  she  said,  "  I  did 
forget,  I  am  grieved,  I  did  not  mean  to  neglect  you." 
"Where  have  you  been,  Lucretia?'  "I  have  been 
writing,"  she  replied,  confused  ;  "  as  I  passed  the  win 
dow,  I  saw  a  solitary  sweet  pea,  I  thought  they  were 
all  gone ;  this  was  alone  ;  I  ran  to  smell  it,  but  before  I 
could  reach  it  a  gust  of  wind  broke  the  stem  ;  I  turned 
away  disappointed,  and  was  coming  back  to  you ;  but 
as  I  passed  the  table  there  stood  the  inkstand,  and  I 
forgot  you.'5  If  our  readers  will  turn  to  her  printed 
poems,  and  read  the  "  Last  Flower  of  the  Garden," 

*  Genius,  like  many  other  sovereigns,  has  been  allowed  the 
exercise  of  unreasonable  prerogatives ;  but  none  perhaps  much 
more  mischievous,  than  the  right  to  confer  on  self-indulgence 
the  gracious  name  of  sensibility. 


BIOGRAPHY.  35 

they  will  not  wonder  that  her  mother  kissed  her,  and 
bade  her  never  resist  a  similar  impulse. 

When  in  her  "happy  moments,"  as  she  termed 
them,  the  impulse  to  write  was  irresistible  —  she 
always  wrote  rapidly,  and  sometimes  expressed  a 
wish  that  she  had  two  pairs  of  hands,  to  record  as 
fast  as  she  composed.  She  wrote  her  short  pieces 
standing,  often  three  or  four  in  a  day,  in  the  midst  of 
the  family,  blind  and  deaf  to  all  around  her,  wrapt  in 
her  own  visions.  She  herself  describes  these  visita 
tions  of  her  muse,  in  an  address  to  her,  beginning — 

"  Enchanted  when  thy  voice  I  hear, 

I  drop  each  earthly  care; 
I  feel  as  wafted  from  the  world 
To  Fancy's  realms  of  air." 

When  composing  her  long,  and  complicated  poems 
like  "  Amir  Khan,"  she  required  entire  seclusion ;  if 
her  pieces  were  seen  in  the  process  of  production,  the 
spell  was  dissolved,  she  could  not  finish  them,  and 
they  were  cast  aside  as  rubbish.  When  writing  a 
poem  of  considerable  length,  she  retired  to  her  own 
apartment,  closed  the  blinds,  and  in  warm  weather 
placed  her  ^Eolian  harp  in  the  window.  Her  mother 
has  described  her  on  one  of  these  occasions,  when  an 
artist  would  have  painted  her  as  a  young  genius  com 
muning  with  her  muse.  We  quote  her  mother's 
graphic  description:  "I  entered  the  room  —  she  was 
sitting  with  scarcely  lightenough  to  discern  the  charac 
ters  she  was  tracing ;  her  harp  was  in  the  window, 
touched  by  a  breeze  just  sufficient  to  rouse  the  spirit 
of  harmony ;  her  comb  had  fallen  on  the  floor,  and 
her  long  dark  ringlets  hung  in  rich  profusion  over  her 
neck  and  shoulders,  her  cheek  glowed  with  animation, 
her  lips  were  half  unclosed,  her  full  dark  eye  was 
radiant  with  the  light  of  genius,  and  beaming  with 


36  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

sensibility,  her  head  rested  on  her  left  hand,  while  she 
held  her  pen  in  her  right — she  looked  like  the  inhabi 
tant  of  another  sphere ;  she  was  so  wholly  absorbed 
that  she  did  not  observe  my  entrance.  I  looked  over 
her  shoulder  and  read  the  following  lines : 

"  What  heavenly  music  strikes  my  ravish'd  ear, 
So  soft,  so  melancholy,  and  so  clear  ] 
And  do  the  tuneful  nine  then  touch  the  lyre, 
To  fill  each  bosorn  with  poetic  fire1? 
Or  does  some  angel  strike  the  sounding  strings 
Who  caught  from  echo  the  wild  note  he  sings] 
But  ah  !  another  strain,  how  sweet !  how  wild ! 
Now  rushing  low,  't  is  soothing,  soft,  and  mild." 

The  noise  I  made  in  leaving  the  room  roused  her, 
and  she  soon  after  brought  me  her  "  Lines  to  an 
^Eolian  Harp."  During  the  winter  of  1822  she  wrote 
a  poetical  romance,  entitled  "  Rodri."  She  burned 
this,  save  a  few  fragments  found  after  her  death. 
These  indicate  a  well-contrived  story,  and  marked  by 
the  marvellous  ease  and  grace  that  characterized  her 
versification.  During  this  winter  she  wrote  also  a 
tragedy,  "  The  Reward  of  Ambition,"  the  only  pro 
duction  she  ever  read  aloud  to  her  family.  The  fol 
lowing  summer,  her  health  again  failing,  she  was 
withdrawn  again  from  school,  and  sent  on  a  visit  to 
some  friends  in  Canada.  A  letter,  too  long  to  be  in 
serted  here  entire,  gives  a  very  interesting  account  of 
the  impression  produced  on  this  little  thoughtful  and 
feeling  recluse,  by  new  objects  and  new  aspects  of 
society.  "  We  visited,"  says  the  writer,  "  the  British 
fortifications  at  Isle-aux-Noix.  The  broad  ditch,  the 
lofty  ramparts,  the  drawbridge,  the  covered  gateway, 
the  wide-mouthed  cannon,  the  arsenal,  and  all  the 
imposing  paraphernalia  of  a  military  fortress,  seemed 
connected  in  her  mind  with  powerful  associations  of 
what  she  had  read,  but  never  viewed  be-fore.  Instead 


BIOGRAPHY.  37 

of  shrinking  from  objects  associated  with  carnage  and 
death,  like  many  who  possess  not  half  her  sensibility, 
she  appeared  for  the  moment  to  be  attended  by  the 
god  of  war,  and  drank  the  spirit  of  battles  and  sieges, 
with  the  bright  vision  before  her  eyes,  of  conquering 
heroes,  and  wreaths  of  victory."  It  is  curious  to  see 
thus  early  the  effect  of  story  and  song  in  overcoming 
the  instincts  of  nature ;  to  see  this  tender,  gentle 
creature  contemplating  the  engines  of  war,  not  with 
natural  dread  as  instruments  of  torture  and  death,  but 
rather  as  the  forges  by  which  triumphal  cars  and 
wreaths  of  victory  were  to  be  wrought.  A  similar 
manifestation  of  the  effect  of  tradition  and  association 
on  her  poetic  imagination  is  described  in  the  following 
passages  from  the  same  letter.  "  She  found  much  less 
in  the  Protestant  than  in  the  Catholic  churches  to  awa 
ken  those  romantic  and  poetic  associations,  created 
by  the  record  of  events  in  the  history  of  antiquity  and 
traditional  story,  and  much  less  to  accord  with  the 
fictions  of  her  high-wrought  imagination.  In  view 
ing  the  buildings  of  the  city,  or  the  paintings  in  the 
churches,  the  same  uniformity  of  taste  was  observa 
ble.  The  modern,  however  beautiful  in  design  or 
execution,  had  little  power  to  fix  her  attention ;  while 
the  grand,  the  ancient,  the  romantic,  seized  upon  her 
imagination  with  irresistible  power.  The  sanctity  of 
time  seemed,  to  her  mind,  to  give  a  sublimity  to  the 
simplest  objects ;  and  whatever  was  connected  with 
great  events  in  history,  or  with  the  lapse  of  ages  long 
gone  by,  riveted  and  absorbed  every  faculty  of  her 
mind.  During  our  visit  to  the  nunneries  she  said  but 
little,  and  seemed  abstracted  in  thought,  as  if,  as  she 
herself  so  beautifully  expresses  it,  to 


Roll  back  the  tide  of  time,  and  raise 
The  faded  forms  of  other  days." 


3* 


38  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

"  She  had  an  opportunity  of  viewing  an  elegant 
collection  of  paintings.  She  seemed  in  ecstasies  all 
the  evening,  and  every  feature  beamed  with  joy." 
The  writer,  after  proceeding  to  give  an  account  of 
her  surprising  success  in  attempts  at  pencil-sketches 
from  nature,  expresses  his  delight  and  amazement  at 
the  attainments  of  this  girl  of  fourteen  years  in  gene 
ral  literature,  and  at  the  independence  and  originality 
of  mind  that  resisted  the  subduing,  and,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  expression,  the  subordinating  effect  of  this 
early  intimacy  with  captivating  models.  A  marvel 
lous  resistance,  if  we  take  into  the  account  "  that 
timid,  retiring  modesty,"  which,  as  the  writer  of  the 
letter  says,  "  marked  her  even  to  painful  excess." 
Lucretia  returned  to  her  mother  with  renovated 
health,  and  her  mind  bright  with  new  impressions 
and  joyous  emotions.  Religion  is  the  natural,  and 
only  sustaining  element  of  such  a  character.  Where, 
but  at  the  ever  fresh,  sweet,  and  life-giving  fountains 
of  the  Bible,  could  such  a  spirit  have  drunk,  and  not 
again  thirsted  1  During  the  winter  of  1823,  she  ap 
plied  herself  more  closely  than  ever  to  her  studies. 
She  read  the  Holy  Scriptures  with  fixed  attention. 
She  almost  committed  to  memory  the  Psalms  of 
David,  the  Lamentations  of  Jeremiah,  and  the  book 
of  Job,  guided  in  her  selection  by  her  poetic  taste. 
Byron  somewhere  pronounces  the  book  of  Job,  the 
sublimest  poetry  on  record.  During  the  winter  Miss 
Davidson  wrote  "  A  Hymn  on  Creation,"  "  The  Exit 
from  Egyptian  Bondage,"  and  versified  many  chap 
ters  of  the  Bible.  She  read  the  New  Testament,  and 
particularly  those  parts  of  it  that  contained  the  most 
affecting  passages  in  the  history  of  our  Saviour,  with 
he  deepest  emotion. 

In  her  intellectual  pursuits  and  attainments  only 
was  she  premature.  She  retained  unimpaired,  the 


BIOGRAPHY.  39 

innocence,  simplicity  and  modesty  of  a  child.  We 
have  had  descriptions  of  the  extreme  loveliness  of 
her  face,  and  gracefulness  of  her  person,  from  less 
doubtful  authority  than  a  fond  mother. 

Our  country  towns  are  not  regulated  by  the  con 
ventional  systems  of  the  cities,  where  a  youthful 
beauty  is  warily  confined  to  the  nursery  and  the 
school  till  the  prescribed  age  for  coming  out,  the  coup- 
de-theatre  of  every  young  city-woman's  life  arrives. 
In  the  country,  as  soon  as  a  girl  can  contribute  to 
the  pleasures  of  society,  she  is  invited  into  it.  During 
the  winter  of  1823,  Plattsburgh  was  gay,  and  Miss 
Davidson  was  eagerly  sought  to  embellish  the  village 
dances.  She  had  been  at  a  dancing  school,  and,  like 
most  young  persons,  enjoyed  excessively  this  natural 
exercise ;  for  that  may  be  called  natural  which  exists 
among  all  nations,  barbarous  and  civilized. 

Mrs.  Davidson  has  given  an  account  of  her  daugh 
ter's  first  ball,  which  all  young  ladies,  at  least,  will 
thank  us  for  transcribing  almost  verbatim,  as  it  places 
her  more  within  the  circle  of  their  sympathies.  Her 
mother  had  consented  to  her  attending  one  or  two 
public  assemblies,  in  the  hope  they  might  diminish  her 
extreme  timidity,  painful  both  to  Lucretia  and  her 
friends.  The  day  arrived  ;  Mrs.  Davidson  was  con 
sulting  with  her  eldest  daughter  upon  the  all-important 
matter  of  the  dresses  for  the  evening ;  Lucretia  sat  by, 
reading,  without  raising  her  eyes  from  the  book,  one 
of  the  Waverly  novels.  "  Mamma,  what  shall  Luly 
wear?"  asked  her  eldest  sister,  calling  her  by  the  pretty 
diminutive  by  which  they  usually  addressed  her  at 
home.  "  Come  Lucretia,  what  colour  will  you  wear 
to-night?"  "  Where?"  "  Where,  why  to  the  assem 
bly,  to  be  sure."  "The  assembly;  is  it  to-night?  so  it 
is !"  and  she  tossed  away  the  book  and  danced  about 
the  room  half  wild  with  delight;  her  sister  at  length 


40  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

called  her  to  order,  and  the  momentous  question  re 
specting  the  dress  was  definitely  settled ;  she  then 
resumed  her  reading,  and  giving  no  thought  to  the 
ball,  she  was  again  absorbed  in  her  book.  This  did 
not  result  from  carelessness  of  appearance,  or  indiffer 
ence  to  dress;  on  the  contrary  she  was  rather  remark 
able  for  that  nice  taste,  which  belongs  to  an  eye  for 
proportion  and  colouring;  and  any  little  embellishment 
or  ornament  she  wore  was  well  chosen,  and  well 
placed  ;  but  she  had  the  right  estimate  of  the  relative 
value  of  objects,  which  belongs  to  a  superior  mind. 
When  the  evening  approached,  the  star  of  the  ball 
again  shone  forth,  she  threw  aside  her  book,  and  be 
gan  the  offices  of  the  toilet  with  girlish  interest,  and 
it  might  be,  with  some  heart-beating  at  the  probable 
effect  of  the  lovely  face  her  mirror  reflected.  Her  sister 
was  to  arrange  her  hair.  Lucretia  put  on  her  dress 
ing-gown  to  await  her  convenience ;  but  when  the 
time  came,  she  was  missing ;  "  we  called  her  in  vain," 
says  Mrs.  Davidson ;  "  at  last,  opening  the  parlour 
door,  I  distinctly  saw,  for  it  was  twilight,  some  person 
sitting  behind  the  large  close  stove  ;  I  approached,  and 
found  Lucretia  writing  poetry !  moralizing  on  what 
the  world  calls  pleasure  !  I  was  almost  dumb  with 
amazement — she  was  eager  to  go,  delighted  with  the 
prospect  of  pleasure  before  her ;  yet  she  acted  as  if  the 
lime  were  too  precious  to  spend  in  the  necessary  pre 
parations,  and  she  sat  still,  and  finished  the  last  stanza, 
while  I  stood  by,  mute  with  astonishment  at  this 
strange  bearing  in  a  girl  of  fourteen,  preparing  to 
attend  her  first  ball,  an  event  she  had  anticipated  with 
so  many  mingled  emotions."  "  She  returned  from 
the  assembly,"  continues  her  mother,  "  wild  with  de 
light.  *  Oh  mamma,'  she  said  '  I  wish  you  had 
been  there !  when  I  first  entered,  the  glare  of  light 
dazzled  my  eyes,  my  head  whirled,  and  I  felt  as  if  I 


,  BIOGRAPHY.  41 

were  treading  on  air ;  all  was  so  gay,  so  brilliant ! 
but  I  grew  tired  at  last,  and  was  glad  to  hear  sister 
say  it  was  time  to  go  home.' " 

The  next  day  the  ball  was  dismissed  from  her 
mind,  and  she  returned  to  her  studies  with  her  cus 
tomary  ardour.  During  the  winter  she  read  "  Jose- 
phus,""  Charles  the  Fifth,  Charles  Twelfth  ;  read  over 
Shakspeare,  and  various  other  works  in  prose  and 
poetry  ;  she  particularly  liked  "  Addison,"  and  read 
almost  every  day  a  portion  of  the  Spectator.  Her 
ardent  love  of  literature  seldorn  interfered  with  her 
social  dispositions,  never  with  her  domestic  affections ; 
she  was  ever  the  life  and  joy  of  the  home  circle. 
Great  demands  were  made  on  her  feelings  about  this 
time,  by  two  extraordinary  domestic  events  ;  the  mar 
riage  and  removal  of  her  elder  sister,  her  beloved 
friend  and  companion ;  and  the  birth  of  another,  the 
little  Margaret,  so  often  the  fond  subject  of  her  poetry. 
New,  and  doubtless  sanative  emotions  were  called 
forth  by  this  last  event.  The  following  lines  from  her 
published  poems  were  written  about  this  time. 

Sweet  babe !  I  cannot  hope  tbat  thou  'It  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all  since  earliest  time  decreed ; 
But  may'st  thou  be  with  resignation  blessed, 
To  bear  each  evil,  howsoe'er  distressed. 

May  Hope  her  anchor  lend  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form; 
May  sweet  Benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace, 
To  the  rude  whirlwind  softly  whisper — cease ! 

And  may  Religion,  Heaven's  own  darling  child, 
Teach  thee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile; 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  this  world  of  woe, 
To  Heaven's  high  fount  whence  mercies  ever  flow. 


42  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

And  when  this  vale  of  tears  is  safely  passed, 
When  death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last, 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 

The  following  lines,  never  before  published,  and,  as 
we  think,  marked  by  more  originality  and  beauty, 
were  written  soon  after,  and,  as  those  above,  with  her 
infant  sister  in  her  lap.  What  a  subject  for  a  painter 
would  this  beautiful  impersonation  of  genius  and  love 
have  presented ! 

TrfE  SMILE  OF  INNOCENCE. 

(Written  at  the  age  of  fifteen.) 

There  is  a  smile  of  bitter  scorn, 

Which  curls  the  lip,  which  lights  the  eye; 

There  is  a  smile  in  beauty's  morn, 
Just  rising  o'er  the  midnight  sky. 

There  is  a  smile  of  youthful  joy, 

When  Hope's  bright  star's  the  transient  guest; 
There  is  a  smile  of  placid  age, 

Like  sunset  on  the  billow's  breast. 

There  is  a  smile  —  the  maniac's  smile, 

Which  lights  the  void  which  reason  leaves, 

And  like  the  sunshine  through  a  cloud, 
Throws  shadows  o'er  the  song  she  weaves. 

There  is  a  smile,  of  love,  of  hope, 

Which  shines  a  meteor  through  life's  gloom; 

And  there's  a  smile,  Religion's  smile, 
Which  lights  the  weary  to  the  tomb. 

There  is  a  smile,  an  angel's  smile, 

That  sainted  souls  behind  them  leave. 
There  is  a  smile  which  shines  thro'  toil, 

And  warms  the  bosom  though  in  grief; 


BIOGRAPHY.  43 

And  there's  a  smile  on  nature's  face, 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around  j 

A  pensive  smile  when  twinkling  stars 
Are  glimmering  thro'  the  vast  profound. 

But  there's  a  smile,  'tis  sweeter  still, 

'Tis  one  far  dearer  to  my  soul; 
It  is  a  smile  which  angels  might 

Upon  their  brightest  list  enrol. 

It  is  the  smile  of  innocence, 

Of  sleeping  infancy's  light  dream ; 
Like  lightning  on  a  summer's  eve, 

It  sheds  a  soft  and  pensive  gleam. 

It  dances  round  the  dimpled  cheek, 

And  tells  of  happiness  within  ; 
It  smiles  what  it  can  never  speak, 

A  human  heart  devoid  of  sin. 

The  three  last  most  beautiful  stanzas  must  have 
been  inspired  by  the  sleeping  infant  on  her  lap,  and 
they  seem  to  have  reflected  her  soul's  image  ;  as  we 
have  seen  the  little  inland  lake  catch  and  give  back 
the  marvellous  beauty  of  the  sunset  clouds.  "  Soon 
after  her  marriage,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  her  sister, 
Mrs.  Townsend,  removed  to  Canada,  and  many  cir 
cumstances  combined  to  interrupt  her  literary  pursuits, 
and  call  forth,  not  only  the  energies  of  her  mind,  but 
to  develope  the  filial  devotion  and  total  sacrifice  of  all 
selfish  feelings,  which  gave  a  new  and  elevated  tone 
to  her  character,  and  showed  us  that  there  was  no 
gratification  either  in  pursuance  of  mental  improve 
ment,  or  personal  ease,  but  must  bend  to  her  high 
standard  of  filial  duty."  Her  mother  was  very  ill, 
and,  to  add  to  the  calamity,  her  monthly  nurse  was 
taken  sick,  and  left  her — the  infant,  too,  was  ill.  Lu- 
cretia  sustained  her  multiplied  cares  with  firmness 
and  efficiency:  the  conviction  that  she  was  doing  her 


44  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

duty  gave  her  strength  almost  preternatural.  I  shall 
again  quote  her  mother's  words,  for  I  fear  to  enfeeble 
by  any  version  of  my  own,  the  beautiful  example  of 
this  conscientious  little  being.  "  Lucretia  astonished 
us  all ;  she  took  her  station  in  my  sick  room,  and  de 
voted  herself  wholly  to  the  mother  and  the  child  ;  and 
when  my  recovery  became  doubtful,  instead  of  re 
signing  herself  to  grief,  her  exertions  were  redoubled, 
not  only  for  the  comfort  of  the  sick,  but  she  was  an 
angel  of  consolation  to  her  afflicted  father ;  we  were 
amazed  at  the  exertions  she  made,  and  the  fatigue 
she  endured;  for  with  nerves  so  weak,  a  constitution 
so  delicate,  and  a  sensibility  so  exquisite,  we  trembled 
lest  she  should  sink  with  anxiety  and  fatigue.  Until 
it  ceased  to  be  necessary,  she  performed  not  only  the 
duty  of  a  nurse,  but  acted  as  superintendent  of  the 
household."  When  her  mother  became  convalescent. 
Lucretia  continued  her  attentions  to  domestic  affairs: 
"  She  did  not  so  much  yield  to  her  ruling  passion  as 
to  look  into  a  book,  or  take  up  a  pen  (says  her 
mother),  lest  she  should  again  become  so  absorbed 
in  them  as  to  neglect  to  perform  those  little  offices 
which  a  feeble,  affectionate  mother  had  a  right  to 
claim  at  her  hands.  As  was  to  be  expected  from  the 
intimate  union  of  soul  and  body,  when  her  mind  was 
starved,  it  became  dejected  and  her  body  weak  ;  and, 
in  spite  of  her  filial  efforts,  her  mother  detected  tears 
on  her  cheeks,  was  alarmed  by  her  excessive  pale 
ness,  and  expressed  her  apprehensions  that  she  was 
ill.  "No,  mamma,"  she  replied,  "  not  ill,  only  out  of 
spirits."  Her  mother  then  remarked,  that  of  late,  she 
never  read  or  wrote.  She  burst  into  tears, — a  full 
explanation  followed,  and  the  generous  mother  suc 
ceeded  in  convincing  her  child  that  she  had  been 
misguided  in  the  course  she  had  adopted,  that  the 
strongest  wish  of  her  heart  was  to  advance  her  in 


BIOGRAPHY.  4f 

her  literary  career,  and  for  this  she  would  make 
every  exertion  in  her  power;  at  the  same  time  she 
very  judiciously  advised  her  to  intersperse  her  literary 
pursuits  with  those  domestic  occupations  so  essentia' 
to  prepare  every  woman  in  our  land  for  a  housewife, 
her  probable  destiny. 

This  conversation  had  a  most  happy  effect;  the 
stream  flowed  again  in  its  natural  channel,  and  Lu 
cretia  became  cheerful,  read  and  wrote,  and  practiseo 
drawing.  She  had  a  decided  taste  for  drawing,  anc 
excelled  in  it.  She  sung  over  her  work,  and  in  ever*- 
way  manifested  the  healthy  condition  that  results 
from  a  wise  obedience  to  the  laws  of  nature. 

We  trust  there  are  thousands  of  young  ladies  in 
our  land,  who  at  the  call  of  filial  duty  would  cheer 
fully  perform  domestic  labour ;  but  if  there  are  any 
who  would  make  a  strong  love  for  more  elevated 
and  refined  pursuits,  an  excuse  for  neglecting  these, 
coarser  duties,  we  would  commend  them  to  the  ex 
ample  of  this  conscientious  child.  She,  if  any  could 
might  have  pleaded  her  genius,  or-  her  delicate 
health,  or  her  mother's  most  tender  indulgence,  for  a 
failure,  that  in  her  would  have  hardly  seemed  to  us 
a  fault. 

During  this  summer,  she  went  to  Canada  with  he. 
mother,  where  she  revelled  in  an  unexplored  library 
and  enjoyed  most  heartily  the  social  pleasures  at  he. 
sister's.  They  frequently  had  a  family  concert  of 
music  in  the  evening.  Mrs.  Townsend  (her  sister) 
accompanied  the  instruments  with  her  fine  voice. 
Lucretia  was  often  moved  by  the  music,  and  par 
ticularly  by  her  favourite  song,  Moore's  "  Farewell 
to  my  Harp;"  this  she  would  have  sung  to  her  at 
twilight,  when  it  would  excite  a  shivering  through 
her  whole  frame.  On  one  occasion,  she  became 
4 


46  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

cold  and  pale,  and  was  near  fainting,  and  afterwards 
poured  her  excited  feelings  forth  in  the  following 
iddress  :  — 

TO  MY  SISTER. 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  Heaven  ; 

When  not  a  murmur,  nor  a  sound 
To  fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  Heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye  ; 

When  nature,  softened  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie; 


,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
world,  and  all  this  world  can  give  ; 
Or    sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And  hovering,  trembles,  half  afraid, 

Oh  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 
Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 

'Twere  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 
Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day 

Notes  borne  by  uigels'  purest  wing, 
And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Shouldst  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love  ? 

We  insert  here  a  striking  circumstance  that  occur 
red  during  a  visit  to  her  sister  the  following  year.  She 
was  at  that  time  employed  in  writing  her  longest 
published  poem,  "Amir  Khan."  Immediately  after 
breakfast  she  went  to  walk,  and  not  returning  to  din- 


BIOGRAPHY.  47 

ner,  nor  even  when  the  evening  approached,  Mr. 
Townsend  set  forth  in  search  of  her.  He  met  her, 
and  as  her  eye  encountered  his,  she  smiled  and  blush 
ed,  as  if  she  felt  conscious  of  having  been  a  little 
ridiculous.  She  said  she  had  called  on  a  friend,  and, 
having  found  her  absent,  had  gone  to  her  library, 
where  she  had  been  examining  some  volumes  of  an 
Encyclopedia  to  aid  her,  we  believe,  in  the  oriental 
story  she  was  employed  upon.  She  forgot  her  dinner 
and  her  tea,  and  had  remained  reading,  standing,  and 
with  her  hat  on,  till  the  disappearance  of  daylight 
brought  her  to  her  senses.  In  the  interval  between 
her  visits,  she  wrote  several  letters  to  her  friends, 
which  are  chiefly  interesting  from  the  indications  they 
afford  of  her  social  and  affectionate  spirit.  We  sub 
join  a  few  extracts.  She  had  returned  to  Pittsburgh 
amid  the  bustle  of  a  Fourth  of  July  celebration. 
We  found,"  she  says,  "  our  brother  Yankees  had 
turned  out  well  to  celebrate  the  Fourth.  The  wharf 
from  the  hill  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  even  the 
rafts  and  sloops,  were  black  with  the  crowd.  If  some 
very  good  genius,  who  presided  over  my  destiny  at 
that  time,  had  not  spread  its  protecting  pinions  around 
me,  like  everything  else  in  my  possession,  I  should 
have  lost  even  my  precious  self.  What  a  truly  la 
mentable  accident  it  would  have  been  just  at  that 
moment !  We  took  a  carriage,  and  were  extricating 

ourselves  from  the  crowd,  when  Mr. ,  who 

had  pressed  himself  through,  came  to  shake  hands 

and  bid  good-bye.     He  is  now  on  his  way  to . 

Well !  here  is  health,  happiness,  and  a  bushel  of  love 
to  all  married  people  !  Is  it  possible,  you  ask,  that 
sister  Lue  could  ever  have  permitted  such  a  toast  to 
pass  her  lips  ?  We  arrived  safely  at  our  good  old 
home,  and  found  everything  as  we  left  it.  The  chim 
ney  swallows  had  taken  up  their  residence  in  the 


48  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

chimney,  and  rattled  the  soot  from  their  sable  habita 
tions  over  the  hearth  and  carpet.  It  looked  like  deso 
lation  indeed.  The  grass  is  high  in  the  yard :  the 
wild-roses,  double-roses,  and  sweet-briars  are  in  full 
bloom,  and,  take  it  all  in  all,  the  spot  looks  much  as 
the  garden  of  Eden  did  after  the  expulsion  of  Adam 
and  Eve.  We  had  just  done  tea  when  M.  came  in 
and  sat  an  hour  or  two.  What  in  the  name  of  won 
der  could  he  have  found  to  talk  about  all  that  time  ? 
Something,  dear  sister,  you  would  not  have  thought 
of;  something  of  so  little  consequence  that  the  time  he 
spent  glided  swiftly,  almost  unnoticed.  I  had  him  all 
to  myself,  tete-a-tete.  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  tell 
you  I  had  yesterday  a  present  of  a  most  beautiful 
bouquet :  I  wore  it  to  church  in  the  afternoon  ;  but  it 
has  withered  and  faded — 

*  Withered,  like  the  world's  treasures, 
Faded,  like  the  world's  pleasures.'  " 

From  the  sort  of  mystical,  girl-like  allusions  in  the 
aboveextracts,to  persons  whose  initials  only  are  given, 
to  bouquets  and  tete-a-tetes,  we  infer  that  she  thus  early 
had  declared  lovers  even  at  this  age,  for  she  was  not 
yet  sixteen :  her  mother  says  she  had  resolved  never 
to  marry.  "  Her  reasons,"  continues  her  mother,  "  for 
this  decision  were,  that  her  peculiar  habits,  her  entire 
devotion  to  books,  and  scribbling  (as  she  called  it), 
unfitted  her  for  the  care  of  a  family  ;  she  could  not  do 
justice  to  husband  or  children,  while  her  whole  soul 
was  absorbed  in  literary  pursuits  ;  she  was  not  willing 
to  resign  them  for  any  man,  therefore  she  had  formed 
the  resolution  to  lead  a  single  life  ;"  a  resolution  that 
would  have  lasted  probably  till  she  had  passed  under 
the  dominion  of  a  stronger  passion  than  her  love  for 
the  muses.  With  affections  like  hers,  and  a  most 
lovely  person  and  attractive  manners,  her  resolution 


•BIOGRAPHY.  49 

would  scarcely  have  enabled  her  to  escape  the  com 
mon  destiny  of  her  sex. — The  following  is  an  extract 
from  a  letter  written  after  participating  in  several  gay 
parties :  "  Indeed,  my  dear  brother,  I  have  turned 
round  like  a  top,  for  the  last  two  or  three  weeks,  and 
am  glad  to  seat  myself  once  more  in  my  favourite 
corner.  How,  think  you,  should  I  stand  it  to  be 
whirled  in  the  giddy  round  of  dissipation?  I  come 
home  from  the  blaze  of  light,  from  the  laugh  of  mirth, 
the  smile  of  complaisance,  and  seeming  happiness, 
and  the  vision  passes  from  my  mind  like  the  brilliant 
but  transitory  hues  of  the  rainbow ;  and  I  think  with 
regret  on  the  many,  very  many  happy  hours  I  have 
passed  with  you  and  Anne.  Oh !  I  do  want  to  see 
you,  indeed  I  do,  —  you  think  me  wild,  thoughtless, 
and  perhaps  unfeeling ;  but  I  assure  you  I  can  be 
sober,  I  sometimes  think,  and  I  can  and  do  feel. — 
Why  have  you  not  written  ?  not  one  word  in  almost 
three  weeks  !  Dear  brother  and  sister,  I  must  write; 
but  dear  Anne,  I  am  now  doomed  to  dim  your  eye 
and  cloud  your  brow,  for  I  know  that  what  I  have  to 
communicate  will  surprise  and  distress  you.  Our 
dear  cousin  John  is  dead  !  Oh  !  I  need  not  tell  you 
how  much,  how  deeply  he  is  lamented ;  you  knew 
him,  and  like  every  one  else  who.  did,  you  loved  him. 
Poor  Eliza  !  how  my  heart  aches  for  her  !  her  father, 
her  mother,  her  brother,  all  gone  ;  almost  the  last,  the 
dearest  tie  is  broken  which  bound  her  to  life;  what 
a  vacancy  must  there  be  in  her  heart!  how  fatal  would 
it  prove  to  almost  every  hope  in  life,  were  we  allowed 
even  a  momentary  glimpse  of  futurity  !  for  often  half 
the  enjoyments  of  life  consist  in  the  anticipation  of 
pleasures,  which  may  never  be  ours."  Soon  after  this 
Lucretia  witnessed  the  death  of  a  beloved  young 
friend ;  it  was  the  first  death  she  had  seen,  and  it  had 
its  natural  effect  on  a  reflecting  and  sensitive  mind. 
4* 


50  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Her  thoughts  wandered  through  eternity  by  the  light 
of  religion,  the  only  light  that  penetrates  beyond  the 
death-bed. — She  wrote  many  religious  pieces ;  but  as 
I  hope  another  volume  of  her  poems  will  be  given  to 
the  public,  I  have  merely  selected  the  following : — 

Oh,  that  the  eagle's  wing  were  mine, 

I  'd  soar  above  the  dreary  earth ; 
I  'd  spread  my  wings,  and  rise  to  join 

The  immortal  fountain  of  my  birth.  v 

For  what  is  joy  ?  how  soon  it  fades, 

The  childish  vision  of  an  hour ! 
Though  warm  and  brilliant  are  its  shades, 

'Tis  but  a  frail  and  fading  flower. 

And  what  is  hope?  it  is  a  light 
•  Which  leads  us  on  deluding  ever, 

Till  lost  amid  the  shades  of  night 
We  sink,  and  then  it  flies  for  ever! 

And  what  is  love  !  it  is  a  dream, 

A  brilliant  fable  framed  by  youth; 
A  bubble  dancing  on  life's  stream, 

And  sinking  'neath  the  eye  of  truth. 

And  what  are  honour,  glory,  fame, 

But  death's  dark  watchwords  to  the  grave  5 

The  victim  dies,  and  lo!  his  name 
Is  stamp'd  in  life's  red  rolling  wave. 

And  what  are  all  the  joys  of  life, 

But  vanity,  and  toil,  and  woe ; 
What  but  a  bitter  cup  of  grief, 

With  dregs  of  sin  and  death  below. 

This  world  is  but  the  first  dark  gate 

Unfolded  to  the  wakening  soul; 
But  death  unerring  led  by  fate, 

Shall  Heaven's  bright  fortals  backward  roll. 


BIOGRAPHY. 


Then  shall  this  unchained  spirit  fly- 
On  to  the  God  who  gave  it  life;  'VsT^T 

Rejoicing  as  it  soars  on  high, 

Released  from  danger,  doubt,  and  strife. 

There  will  it  pour  its  anthems  forth, 

Bending  before  its  Maker's  throne; 
The  great  I  AM,  who  gave  it  birth, 

The  Almighty  God,  the  dread  unknown. 

During  this  winter  her  application  to  her  books  was 
so  unremitting,  that  her  parents  again  became  alarmed 
for  her  health,  and  persuaded  her  occasionally  to  join 
in  the  amusements  of  Plattsburgh.  She  came  home 
one  night  at  twelve  o'clock,  from  a  ball,  and  after 
giving  a  most  lively  account  of  all  she  had  seen  and 
heard  to  her  mother,  she  quietly  seated  herself  at  the 
table,  and  wrote  her  "  Reflections  after  leaving  a 
Ball-room."  Her  spirit,  though  it  glided  with  kind 
sympathies  into  the  common  pleasures  of  youth,  never 
seemed  to  relax  its  tie  to  the  spiritual  world.  During 
the  summer  of  1824,  Captain  Partridge  visited  Platts 
burgh,  with  his  soldier  scholars. 

Military  display  had  its  usual  exciting  effect  on  Miss 
Davidson's  imagination,  and  she  addressed  "  to  the 
Vermont  Cadets"  the  following  spirited  stanzas,  which 
might  have  come  from  the  martial  Clorinda : — 

Pass  on !  for  the  bright  torch  of  glory  is  beaming  ; 
Go,  wreathe  round  your  brows  the  green  laurels  of  fame, 
Around  you  a  halo  is  brilliantly  streaming, 
And  history  lingers  to  write  down  each  name. 

Yes  !  ye  are  the  pillars  of  liberty's  throne ; 

When  around  you  the  banner  of  glory  shall  wave, 

America  proudly  shall  claim  you  her  own ; 

And  freedom  and  honour  shall  pause  o'er  each  grave ! 

A  watch-fire  of  glory,  a  beacon  of  light, 

Shall  guide  you  to  Honour,  shall  point  you  to  Fame ; 


52  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  heart  that  shrinks  back,  be  it  buried  in  night, 
And  withered  with  dim  tears  of  sorrow  and  shame  ! 

Though  death  should  await  you,  'twere  glorious  to  die 
With  the  glow  of  pure  honour  still  warm  on  the  brow ; 
With  a  light  sparkling  brightly  around  the  dim  eye, 
Like  the  smile  of  a  spirit  still  ling'ring  below. 

Pass  on,  and  when  war  in  his  strength  shall  arise, 
Rush  on  to  the  conflict  and  conquer  or  die; 
Let  the  clash  of  your  arms  proudly  roll  to  the  skies: 
Be  blest,  if  victorious  —  and  cursed,  if  you  fly  ! 

It  was  about  this  time  that  she  finished  "  Amir 
Khan,"  and  began  a  tale  of  some  length,  which  she 
entihed  the  "  Recluse  of  the  Saranac."  "  Amir 
Khan"  has  long  been  before  the  public,  but  we 
think  it  has  suffered  from  a  general  and  very  natural 
distrust  of  precocious  genius.  The  versification  is 
graceful,  the  story  beautifully  developed,  and  the 
orientalism  well  sustained.  We  think  it  would  not 
have  done  discredit  to  our  best  popular  poets  in  the 
meridian  of  their  fame  :  as  the  production  of  a  girl 
of  fifteen,  it  seems  prodigious. — On  her  mother  disco 
vering  and  reading  a  part  of  her  romance,  Lucretia 
manifested  her  usual  shrinkings,  and  with  many 
tears  exacted  a  promise  that  she  would  not  again  look 
at  it  till  it  was  finished  ;  she  never  again  saw  it  till 
after  her  daughter's  death.  Lucretia  had  a  most 
whimsical  fancy  for  cutting  sheets  of  paper  into  nar 
row  strips,  sewing  them  together  and  writing  on  both 
sides ;  and  once  playfully  boasting  to  her  mother  of 
having  written  some  yards,  she  produced  a  roll,  and 
forbidding  her  mother's  approach,  she  measured  off 
twenty  yards  !  She  often  expressed  a  wish  to  spend 
one  fortnight  alone,  even  to  the  exclusion  of  her  little 
pet-sister ;  and  Mrs.  Davidson,  eager  to  afford  her 
every  gratification  in  her  power,  had  a  room  prepared 


BIOGRAPHY.  53 

for  her  recess ;  her  dinner  was  sent  up  to  her,  she 
declined  coming  down  to  tea,  and  her  mother,  on 
going  to  her  apartment,  found  her  writing, — her  plate 
untouched. 

Some  secret  joy  it  was  natural  her  mother  should 
feel  at  this  devotion  to  intellectual  pleasure ;  but  her 
good  sense  or  her  maternal  anxiety  got  the  better  of 
it,  and  she  persuaded  Lucretia  to  consent  to  the  inter 
ruption  of  a  daily  walk.  It  was  about  this  period 
that  she  became  acquainted  with  the  gentleman  who 
was  destined  to  influence  the  brief  space  of  life  that 
remained  to  her.  The  late  Hon.  Moss  Kent,  with 
whom  her  mother  had  been  acquainted  for  many 
years,  previous  to  her  marriage,  had  often  been  a 
guest  at  the  house  of  Dr.  Davidson,  but  it  had  so  hap 
pened  that  he  had  never  met  Lucretia  since  her  early 
childhood.  Struck  with  some  little  effusions  which 

were  in  the  possession  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  P ,  he 

went  immediately  to  see  Mrs.  Davidson,  to  ask  the 
privilege  of  reading  some  of  her  last  productions. 
On  his  way  to  the  house  he  met  Lucretia  ;  he  had 
been  interested  by  the  reputation  of  her  genius  and 
modesty ;  no  wronder  that  the  beautiful  form  in  which 
it  was  enshrined  should  have  called  this  interest  into 
sudden  and  effective  action.  Miss  Davidson  was  just 
sixteen — her  complexion  was  the  most  beautiful  bru 
nette,  clear  and  brilliant,  of  that  warm  tint  that  seems 
to  belong  to  lands  of  the  sun  rather  than  to  our 
chilled  regions;  indeed  her  whole  organization,  mental 
as  well  as  physical,  her  deep  and  quick  sensibility, 
her  early  development,  were  characteristics  of  a 
warmer  clime  than  ours  ;  her  stature  was  of  the  mid 
dle  height,  her  form  slight  and  symmetrical,  her  hair 
profuse,  dark,  and  curling,  her  mouth  and  nose  regu 
lar,  and  as  beautiful  as  if  they  had  been  chiselled  by 
an  inspired  artist :  and  through  this  fitting  medium 


54  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

beamed  her  angelic  spirit.  "  Mr.  Kent,  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  inherent  in  his  nature,  after  examining 
her  common-place  book,  resolved,  if  he  could  induce 
her  parents  to  resign  Lucretia  to  his  care,  to  afford 
her  every  facility  for  improvement  that  could  be  ob 
tained  in  the  country — and  in  short,  he  proposed  to 
adopt  her  as  his  own  child.  Her  parents  took  the 
subject  into  consideration,  and  complied  so  far  with 
his  benevolent  wishes,  as  to  permit  him  to  take  an 
active  interest  in  her  education,  deferring  to  future 
consideration,  the  question  of  his  adopting  her.  Had 
she  lived,  they  would,  no  doubt,  have  consented  to 
his  plan.  It  was,  after  some  deliberation,  decided  to 
send  her  a  few  months  to  the  Troy  Seminary,  and  on 
the  same  evening  she  wrote  the  following  letter  to 
her  brother  and  sister: — 

"What  think  you?  'ere  another  moon  shall  fill 
round  as  my  shield,"  I  shall  be  at  Mrs.  Willard's  se 
minary  ;  in  a  fortnight  I  shall  probably  have  left 
Plattsburgh,  not  to  return  at  least  until  the  expiration 
of  six  months.  Oh  !  I  am  so  delighted,  so  happy !  I 
shall  scarcely  eat,  drink,  or  sleep  for  a  month  to  come. 
You  and  Anne  must  both  write  to  me  often,  and  you 
must  not  laugh  when  you  think  of  poor  Luly  in  the 
far-famed  city  of  Troy,  dropping  handkerchiefs,  keys, 
gloves,  &c. ;  in  short,  something  of  everything  I  have. 
It  is  well  if  you  can  read  what  I  have  written,  for 
papa  and  mamma  are  talking,  and  my  head  whirls 
like  a  top.  Oh  !  how  my  poor  head  aches  !  Such  a 
surprise  as  I  have  had !" 

On  the  24th  of  November,  1824,  she  left  home, 
health  on  her  cheek  and  in  her  bosom,  and  flushed 
with  the  most  ardent  expectations  of  getting  rapidly 
forward  in  the  career  her  desires  were  fixed  upon. 
But  even  at  this  moment  her  fond  devotion  to  her 
mother  was  beautifully  expressed  in  some  stanzas, 


BIOGRAPHY.  55 

which  she  left  where  they  would  meet  her  eye  as 
soon  as  the  parting  tears  were  wiped  away.  These 
stanzas  are  already  published,  and  I  shall  only  quote 
two  from  them,  striking  for  their  tenderness  and  truth. 

"  To  thee  my  lay  is  due,  the  simple  song 
Which  nature  gave  me  at  life's  opening  day ; 

To  thee  these  rude,  these  untaught  strains  belong, 
Whose  heart,  indulgent,  will  not  spurn  my  lay ! 

•'  Oh  say,  amid  this  wilderness  of  life 

What  bosom  would  have  throbbed  like  thine  for  me? 

Who  would  have  smiled  responsive  1    Who  in  grief 
•Would  e'er  have  felt,  and  feeling,  grieved  like  thee?" 

The  following  extracts  from  her  letters,  which  were 
always  filled  with  yearnings  for  home,  will  show  that 
her  affections  were  the  strong-hold  of  her  nature. 

"  Troy  Seminary,  December  6th,  1824.  Here  I 
am  at  last ;  and  what  a  naughty  girl  I  was,  when  I 
was  at  Aunt  Schuyler's,  that  I  did  not  write  you 
everything !  But  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  topsyturvy, 
and  so  I  am  now ;  but  in  despite  of  calls  from  the 
young  ladies,  and  of  a  hundred  new  faces,  and  new 
names  which  are  constantly  ringing  in  my  ears,  I 
have  set  myself  down,  and  will  not  rise  until  I  have 
written  an  account  of  everything  to  my  dear  mother. 
I  am  contented;  yet,  notwithstanding,  I  have  once 
or  twice  turned  a  wishful  glance  towards  my  dear- 
loved  home.  Amidst  all  the  parade  of  wealth,  in  the 
splendid  apartments  of  luxury,  I  can  assure  you,  my 
dearest  mother,  that  I  had  rather  be  with  you  in  our 
own  lowly  home,  than  in  the  midst  of  all  this  cere 
mony." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  like  Mrs.  Willard.  «  And  so  this 
is  my  girl,  Mrs.  Schuyler?'  said  she,  and  took  me  af 
fectionately  by  the  hand.  Oh,  I  want  to  see  you  so 


56  LUCRET1A  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

much  !  But  I  must  not  think  of  it  now.  I  must  learn 
as  fast  as  I  can,  and  think  only  of  my  studies.  Dear, 
dear  little  Margaret !  kiss  her  and  the  little  boys  for 
me.  How  is  dear  father  getting  on  in  this  rattling 
world  ?" 

The  letters  that  followed  were  tinged  with  melan 
choly  from  her  "  bosom's  depth,"  and  her  mother  has 
withheld  them.  In  a  subsequent  one  she  says,  "  I 
have  written  two  long  letters  ;  but  I  wrote  when  I 
was  ill,  and  they  savour  too  much  of  sadness.  I  feel 
a  little  better  now,  and  have  again  commenced  my 
studies.  Mr.  K.  called  here  to-day.  Oh,  he  is  very 
good !  He  stayed  some  time,  and  brought  a  great 
many  books ;  but  I  fear  I  shall  have  little  time  to 
read  aught  but  what  appertains  to  my  studies.  I  am 
consulting  Kames's  Elements  of  Criticism,  studying 
French,  attending  to  Geological  lectures,  composition, 
reading,  paying  some  little  attention  to  painting,  and 
learning  to  dance." 

A  subsequent  letter  indicated  great  unhappiness 
and  debility,  and  awakened  her  mother's  apprehen 
sions.  The  next  was  written  more  cheerfully.  "  As 
I  fly  to  you,"  she  says,  "  for  consolation  in  all  my 
sorrows,  so  I  turn  to  you,  my  dear  mother,  to  par 
ticipate  in  all  my  joys.  The  clouds  that  enveloped 
my  mind  have  dispersed,  and  I  turn  to  you  with  a 
far  lighter  heart  than  when  I  last  wrote.  The  ever 
kind  Mr.  K.  called  yesterday."  She  then  describes 
the  paternal  interest  he  took  in  her  health  and  hap 
piness,  expresses  a  trembling  apprehension  lest  he 
should  be  disappointed  in  the  amount  of  her  improve 
ment,  and  laments  the  loss  of  time  from  her  frequent 
indisposition.  "  How,  my  dear  mother,"  she  says, 
"  shall  I  express  my  gratitude  to  my  kind,  my  excel- 
lent  friend  1  What  is  felt  as  deeply  as  I  feel  this 
obligation,  cannot  be  expressed ;  but  I  can  feel,  and 


BIOGRAPHY.  57 

do  feel."  It  must  be  remembered  that  these  were 
not  formal  and  obligatory  letters  to  her  guardian,  but 
the  spontaneous  overflowing  of  her  heart  in  her  pri 
vate  correspondence  with  her  mother. 

We  now  come  to  a  topic,  to  which  we  would  ask 
the  particular  attention  of  our  readers.  Owing  to 
many  causes,  but  chiefly,  we  believe,  to  the  demand 
for  operatives  in  every  department  of  society  in  our 
country,  the  work  of  school  education  is  crowded 
into  a  very  few  years.  The  studies,  instead  of  being 
selected,  spread  through  the  whole  circle  of  sciences. 
The  school  period  is  the  period  of  the  young  animal's 
physical  growth  and  development ;  the  period  when 
the  demands  of  the  physical  nature  are  strongest, 
and  the  mental  weakest.  Then  our  young  men  are 
immured  in  colleges,  law  schools,  divinity  schools, 
&c. ;  and  our  young  ladies  in  boarding-schools, 
where,  even  in  the  best  regulated,  the  provisions  for 
exercise  in  the  open  air  are  very  insufficient.  In  the 
city  schools,  we  are  aware,  that  the  difficulties  to  be 
overcome  to  achieve  this  great  object  are  nearly  in- 
auperable,  we  believe  quite  so ;  and,  if  they  are  so, 
should  not  these  establishments  be  placed  in  the  coun 
try  1  Are  not  health  and  physical  vigour  the  basis 
of  mental  health  and  vigour,  of  usefulness  and  happi 
ness  1  What  a  proportion  of  the  miseries  of  the  more 
favoured  classes  of  our  females  result  from  their  in- 
validism !  What  feebleness  of  purpose,  weakness  of 
execution,  dejection,  fretfulness,  mental  and  moral 
imbecility ! 

The  case  would  not  be  so  bad,  if  the  misery  ended 
with  one  generation,  with  the  mother  cut  off*  in  the 
midst  of  her  days,  or  dragging  on  to  three-score  and 
ten,  her  unenjoyed  and  profitless  existence.  But  that 
is  not  so :  there  are  hosts  of  living  witnesses  in  the 
sickly,  pale  drooping  children  of  our  nurseries.  There 
5 


f,8  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

are  multitudes  who  tell  us  that  our  climate  will  not 
permit  a  delicate  female  to  exercise  in  the  open  air. 
If  the  climate  is  bad,  so  much  the  more  important  is 
it  to  acquire  strength  to  resist  it.  ^Besides,  if  out-of- 
door  exercise  is  not  at  all  times  attractive,  we  know  it 
is  not  impossible.  We  know  delicately  bred  females, 
who  during  some  of  our  hardest  winters,  have  not  for 
more  than  a  day  or  two  lost  their  exercise  abroad. 
When,  in  addition  to  the  privation  of  pleasurable 
exercise,  (for  the  walk  in  funeral  procession,  attended 
by  martinets,  and  skewered  by  city  decorums,  can 
scarcely  be  called  pleasurable,}  the  school-girl  is  con 
fined  to  her  tasks  from  eight  to  ten  hours,  in  rooms 
sometimes  too  cold,  sometimes  too  hot,  where  her 
fellow-sufferers  are  en  masse,  can  we  wonder  at  the 
result? 

How  far  this  evil  may  have  operated  in  shortening 
the  life  of  Lucretia  Davidson,  we  cannot  say ;  but  we 
cannot  but  think,  that  her  devoted  and  watchful  friends 
erred  in  sending  a  creature  so  delicate  in  her  constitu 
tion  to  any  boarding-school,  even  the  best  conducted 
institution.  We  certainly  do  not  mean  to  express  or 
imply  any  censure  of  the  *«  Troy  Seminary.  We 
have  no  personal  knowledge  of  it ;  but  we  believe  no 
similar  institution  has  more  the  confidence  of  the  com 
munity  ;  and,  as  it  has  been  now  many  years  estab 
lished  and  tried,  it  is  fair  to  believe  it  deserves  it. 

An  arrangement  of  these  boarding-schools,  that 
bore  very  hard  upon  Miss  Davidson,  was  the  public 
examination.*  These  examinations  are  appalling  to 

*I  did  not  intend  remarking  upon  the  influence  these  exami 
nations  have  on  the  scholar's  progress;  but  I  cannot  forbear 
quoting  the  following  pertinent  passage  from  President  Hopkins's 
Inaugural  Address.  "  There  are  not  wanting  schools  in  this 
country,  in  which  the  real  interests  and  progress  of  the  pupils 
are  sacrificed  to  their  appearance  at  examination.  But  the  vanity 


BIOGRAPHY.  59 

a  sensitive  mind.  Could  they  be  proved  to  be  of  man 
ifest  advantage  to  the  scholarship  of  the  young  ladies, 
we  should  doubt  their  utility  on  the  whole.  But  even 
where  they  are  conducted  with  perfect  fairness,  are 
they  a  test  of  scholarship  ?  Do  not  the  bold  outface, 
and  the  indolent  evade  them?  The  studious  are 
stimulated,  and  the  sensitive  and  shrinking,  if  stimu 
lated,  are  appalled  and  disconcerted  by  them,  so  that 
the  condiment  affects  those  only  whose  appetites  are 
already  too  keen. 

But  the  experience  of  Miss  Davidson  is  more  per 
suasive  than  any  reasoning  of  ours,  and  we  shall  give 
it  in  her  own  language,  in  occasional  extracts  from 
her  letters  to  her  mother. 

"  We  now  begin  to  dread  the  examination.  Oh, 
horrible  !  seven  weeks,  and  I  shall  be  posted  up  before 
all  Troy,  all  the  students  from  Schenectady,  and  per 
haps  five  hundred  others.  What  shall  I  do? 

"  I  have  just  received  a  note  from  Mr.  K.  in  which 
he  speaks  of  your  having  written  to  him  of  my  illness. 
I  was  indeed  ill,  and  very  ill,  for  several  days,  and  in 
my  deepest  dejection  wrote  to  you  ;  but  do  not,  my 
dearest  mother,  be  alarmed  about  me.  My  appetite 
is  not  perfectly  good,  but  quite  as  well  as  when  I  was 
at  home. .  The  letter  was  just  such  a  one  as  was 
calculated  to  soothe  my  feelings,  and  set  me  completely 
at  rest.  He  expressed  a  wish  that  my  stay  here 
should  be  prolonged.  What  think  you,  mother  ?  I 
should  be  delighted  by  such  an  arrangement.  This 
place  really  seems  quite  like  home  to  me,  though  not 
my  own  dear  home.  I  like  Mrs.  Willard,  I  love  the 
girls,  and  I  have  the  vanity  to  think  I  am  not  actually 
disagreeable  to  them." 

of  parents  must  be  flattered,  and  the  memory  is  overburdened, 
and  studies  are  forced  on  prematurely,  and  a  system  of  infant- 
school  instruction  is  carried  forward  into  maturer  life." 


00  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

We  come  now  to  another  expression  (partly  seri 
ous  and  partly  bantering,  for  she  seems  to  have  uni 
formly  respected  her  instructress)  of  her  terrors  of 
"  examination." 

"  We  are  all  engaged,  heart  and  hand,  preparing 
"or  this  awful  examination.  Oh,  how  I  dread  it !  But 
there  is  no  retreat.  I  must  stand  firm  to  my  post,  or 
experience  all  the  anger,  vengeance,  and  punishments, 
which  will,  in  case  of  delinquency  or  flight,  be  exer 
cised  with  the  most  unforgiving  acrimony.  We  are 
in  such  cases  excommunicated,  henceforth  and  for 
ever,  under  the  awful  ban  of  holy  Seminary ;  and  the 
evil  eye  of  false  report  is  upon  us.  Oh  mamma,  I  do 
though,  jesting  apart,  dread  this  examination ;  but 
nothing  short  of  real  and  absolute  sickness  can  excuse 
a  scholar  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Willard.  Even  that 
will  not  do  it  to  the  Trojan  world  around  us ;  for  if  a 
young  lady  is  ill  at  examination,  they  say,  with  a 
sneer,  '  Oh,  she  is  ill  of  an  examination-fever !'  Thus 
you  see,  mamma,  we  have  no  mercy  either  from 
friends  or  foes.  We  must  «  do  or  die.1  Tell  Morris 
he  must  write  to  me.  Kiss  dear,  dear  little  Margaret 
for  me,  and  don't  let  her  forget  poor  sister  Luly,  and 
tell  all  who  inquire  for  me  that  I  am  well,  but  in 
awful  dread  of  a  great  examination." 

The  following  extract  is  from  a  letter  to  her  friends, 
who  had  written  under  the  impression,  that  all  letters 
received  by  the  young  ladies  were,  of  course,  read 
by  some  one  of  the  officers  of  the  institution.  * 

"  Lo  !  just  as  I  was  descending  from  the  third  story, 
(for  you  must  know  I  hold  my  head  high,)  your  letter 
was  put  into  my  hands.  Poor  little  wanderer !  I 
really  felt  a  sisterly  compassion  for  the  poor  little 
folded  paper.  I  kissed  it  for  the  sake  of  those  who 
sent  it  forth  into  the  wide  world,  and  put  it  into  my 
bosom.  But  oh,  when  I  read  it !  Now,  Anne,  I  will 


BIOGRAPHY.  61 

tell  you  the  truth ;  it  was  cold ;  perhaps  it  was  writ 
ten  on  one  of  your  cold  Canada  days,  or  perchance 
it  lost  a  little  heat  on  the  way.  It  did  not  seem  to 
come  from  the  very  heart  of  hearts;  it  looked  as 
though  it  were  written  '  to  a  young  lady  at  the  Troy 
Seminary,'  not  to  your  dear,  dear,  dear  sister  Lull/. 
Mr.  K.  has  thus  far  been  a  father  to  me,  and  I  thank 
him ;  but  I  will  not  mock  my  feelings  by  attempting 
to  say  how  much  I  thank  him." 

"  My  dear  mother !  oh  how  I  wish  I  could  lay  my 
head  upon  your  bosom !  I  hope  you  do  not  keep  my 
letters,  for  I  certainly  have  burned  all  yours,*  and  [ 
stood  like  a  little  fool  and  wept  over  their  ashes,  and 
when  I  saw  the  last  one  gone,  I  felt  as  though  I  had 
parted  with  my  last  friend."  Then,  after  expressing 
an  earnest  wish  that  her  mother  would  destroy  her 
letters,  she  says,  "  They  have  no  connection.  When 
I  write,  everything  comes  crowding  upon  me  at 
once;  my  pen  moves  too  slow  for  my  brain  and 
my  heart,  and  I  feel  vexed  at  myself,  and  tumble  ia 
everything  together,  and  a  choice  medley  you  have 
of  it!" 

"  I  attended  Mr.  Ball's  public  (assembly)  last  night, 
and  had  a  delightful  evening ;  but  now  for  something 
of  more  importance — Ex-am-i-na-tion !  I  had  just 
begun  to  be  engaged,  heart  and  hand,  preparing  for 
it,  when,  by  some  means,  I  took  a  violent  cold.  I 
was  unable  to  raise  my  voice  above  a  whisper,  arid 
coughed  incessantly.  On  the  second  day,  Mrs.  Wil- 
lard  sent  for  Dr.  Robbins ;  he  said  I  must  be  bled, 
and  take  an  emetic ;  this  was  sad ;  but  oh,  mamma, 
I  could  not  speak  or  breathe  without  pain."  There 


*  This  was  in  consequence  of  a  positive  command  from  her 
mother. 

5* 


62  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

are  further  details  of  pains,  remedies,  and  consequent 
exhaustion ;  and  yet  this  fragile  and  precious  crea 
ture  was  permitted  by  her  physician  and  friends, 
kind  and  watchful  friends  too,  to  proceed  in  her  sui 
cidal  preparations  for  examination  !  There  was  no 
thing  uncommon  in  this  injudiciousness.  Such  viola 
tions  of  the  laws  of  our  physical  nature  are  every 
day  committed  by  persons,  in  other  respects,  the 
wisest  and  the  best;  and  our  poor  little  martyr  may 
not  have  suffered  in  vain,  if  her  experience  awakens 
attention  to  the  subject. 

In  the  letter  from  which  we  have  quoted  above, 
and  which  is  filled  with  expressions  of  love  for  the 
dear  ones  at  home,  she  continues :  "  Tell  Morris  I 
will  answer  his  letter  in  full  next  quarter,  but  now  I 
fear  I  am  doing  wrong,  for  I  am  yet  quite  feeble, 
and  when  I  get  stronger,  I  shall  be  very  avaricious 
of  my  time,  in  order  to  prepare  for  the  coming 
week. 

"  We  must  study  morning,  noon,  and  night.  1 
shall  rise  between  two  and  four  now  every  morning, 
till  the  dreaded  day  is  past.  I  rose  the  other  night 
at  twelve,  but  was  ordered  back  to  bed  again.  You 
see,  mamma,  I  shall  have  a  chance  to  become  an 
early  riser  here.1'  "  Had  I  not  written  you  that  I 
was  coming  home,  I  think  I  should  not  have  seen  you 
this  winter.  All  my  friends  think  I  had  better  re 
main  here,  as  the  journey  will  be  long  and  cold ;  but 
oh !  there  is  that  at  the  journey's  end,  which  would 
tempt  me  through  the  wilds  of  Siberia  —  father, 
mother,  brothers,  sisters,  home.  Yes,  I  shall  come." 

We  insert  some  stanzas,  written  about  this  time, 
not  so  much  for  their  poetical  merit,  as  for  the  play 
ful  spirit  that  beams  through  them,  and  which  seems 
like  sunbeams  smiling  on  a  cataract. 


BIOGRAPHY.  ;'3 

A  WEEK  BEFORE  EXAMINATION 

One  has  a  headache,  one  a  cold, 
One  has  her  neck  in  flannel  rolled; 
Ask  the  complaint,  and  you  are  told 

*  Next  week's  examination 

One  frets  and  scolds,  and  laughs  and  cries, 
Another  hopes,  despairs,  and  sighs ; 
Ask  but  the  cause,  and  each  replies, 

'  Next  week's  examination 

One  bans  her  books,  then  grasps  them  tight, 
And  studies  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
As  though  she  took  some  strange  delight 
'  In  these  examinations.' 

The  books  are  marked,  defaced,  and  thumbed, 
The  brains  with  midnight  tasks  benumbed, 
Still  all  in  that  account  is  summed, 

'Next  week's  examination.' 

In  a  letter,  February  10th,  she  says,  "  The  dreaded 
work  of  examination  is  now  going  on,  my  dear  mo 
ther.  To-morrow  evening,  which  will  be  the  last, 
and  is  always  the  most  crowded,  is  the  time  fixed 
upon  for  my  entree  upon  the  field  of  action.  Oh  ! 
I  hope  I  shall  not  disgrace  myself.  It  is  the  rule 
here  to  reserve  the  best  classes  till  the  last;  so  I 
suppose  I  may  take  it  as  a  compliment  that  we  are 
delayed." 

"  February  12th.  The  examination  is  over.  E 

E did  herself  and  her  native  village  honour;  but 

as  for  your  poor  Luly,  she  acquitted  herself,  I  trust, 
decently !  Oh !  mamma,  I  was  so  frightened  !  but, 
although  my  face  glowed  and  my  voice  trembled,  I 
did  make  out  to  get  through,  for  I  knew  my  lessons. 
The  room  was  crowded  almost  to  suffocation.  All 
was  still — the  fall  of  a  pin  could  have  been  heard — 


64  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

and  I  tremble  when  I  think  of  it  even  now."  No  one 
can  read  these  melancholy  records  without  emotion. 

Her  visit  home  during  the  vacation  was  given  up, 
in  compliance  with  the  advice  of  her  guardian.  **  I 
wept  a  good  long  hour  or  so,"  she  says,  with  her 
characteristic  gentle  acquiescence,  "  and  then  made 
up  my  mind  to  be  content." 

In  her  next  letter  she  relates  an  incident  very 
striking  in  her  eventful  life. 

It  occurred  in  returning  to  Troy,  after  her  vaca 
tion,  passed  happily  with  her  friends  in  the  vicinity. 
"Uncle  went  to  the  ferry  with  me,"  she  says,  "  where 
we  met  Mr.  Paris.  Uncle  placed  me  under  his  care, 
and,  snugly  seated  by  his  side,  I  expected  a  very  plea 
sant  ride,  with  a  very  pleasant  gentleman.  All  was 
pleasant,  except  that  we  expected  every  instant  that 
all  the  ice  in  the  Hudson  would  come  drifting  against 
us,  and  shut  in  scow,  stage,  and  all,  or  sink  us  to  the 
bottom,  which,  in  either  case,  you  know,  mother, 
would  not  have  been  quite  so  agreeable.  We  had 
just  pushed  from  the  shore,  I  watching  the  ice  with 
anxious  eyes,  when,  lo!  the  two  leaders  made  a  tre 
mendous  plunge,  and  tumbled  headlong  into  the  river. 
I  felt  the  carriage  following  fast  after ;  the  other  two 
horses  pulled  back  with  all  their  power,  but  the  lead 
ers  were  dragging  them  down,  dashing  and  plunging, 
and  flouncing  in  the  water.  '  Mr.  Paris,  in  mercy  let 
us  get  out !'  said  I.  But,  as  he  did  not  see  the  horses, 
he  felt  no  alarm.  The  moment  I  informed  him  they 
were  overboard,  he  opened  the  door,  and  cried, '  Get 
out  and  save  yourself,  if  possible ;  I  am  old  and  stiff', 
but  I  will  follow  in  an  instant.'  *  Out  with  the  lady ! 
let  the  lady  out !'  shouted  several  voices  at  once  ;  '  the 
other  horses  are  about  to  plunge,  and  then  all  u  ill  be 
over.'  I  made  a  lighter  spring  than  many  a  lady 
does  in  a  cotillion,  and  jumped  upon  a  cake  of  ice. 


BIOGRAPHY.  65 

Mr.  Paris  followed,  and  we  stood,  (I  trembling  like  a 
leaf,)  expecting  every  instant  that  the  next  plunge  of 
the  drowning  horses  would  detach  the  piece  of  ice 
upon  which  we  were  standing,  and  send  us  adrift; 
but,  thank  Heaven,  after  working  for  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes,  by  dint  of  ropes,  and  cutting  them  away 
from  the  other  horses,  they  dragged  the  poor  crea 
tures  out,  more  dead  than  alive. 

"  Mother,  don't  you  think  I  displayed  some  cou 
rage  1  I  jumped  into  the  stage  again,  and  shut  the 
door,  while  Mr.  Paris  remained  outside,  watching  the 
movement  of  affairs.  We  at  length  reached  here,  and 
I  am  alive,  as  you  see,  to  tell  the  story  of  my  woes." 

In  her  next  letter  she  details  a  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Willard,  full  of  kind  commendation  and  good 
counsel.  "  Mamma,"  she  concludes,  "you  would  be 
justified  in  thinking  me  a  perfect  lump  of  vanity  and 
egotism ;  but  I  have  always  related  to  you  every 
thought,  every  action  of  my  life.  I  have  had  no  con 
cealments  from  you,  and  I  have  stated  these  matters 
to  you  because  they  fill  me  with  surprise.  Who 
would  think  the  accomplished  Mrs.  Willard  would 
admire  my  poor  daubing,  or  my  poor  anything  else! 
Oh,  dear  mamma,  I  am  so  happy  now  !  so  contented  ! 
Every  unusual  movement  startles  me.  I  am  con 
stantly  afraid'of  something  to  mar  it." 

The  next  extract  is  from  a  letter,  the  emanation  of 
her  affectionate  spirit,  to  a  favourite  brother  seven 
years  old. 

"  Dear  L ,  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  two 

very  interesting  epistles,  and  much  doubt  whether  I 
could  spell  more  ingeniously  myself.  Really,  I  have 
some  idea  of  sending  them  to  the  printers,  to  be  struck 
off  in  imitation  of  a  Chinese  puzzle.  Your  questions 
about  the  stars  I  have  been  cogitating  some  time  past, 
and  am  of  the  opinion,  that,  if  there  are  beings  inha- 


66  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

biting  tnose  heavenly  regions,  they  must  be  content  to 
feed,  cameleon-like,  upon  air;  for  even  were  we  dis 
posed  to  spare  them  a  portion  of  our  earth  sufficient 
to  plant  a  garden,  I  doubt  whether  the  attraction  of 
gravitation  would  not  be  too  strong  for  resistance,  and 
the  unwilling  clod  return  to  its  pale  brethren  of  the 
valley  *  to  rest  in  ease  inglorious.'  So  far  from  burn 
ing  your  precious  letters,  my  dear  little  brother,  I 
carefully  preserve  them  in  a  little  pocket-book,  and 
when  I  feel  lonely  and  desolate,  and  think  of  my  dear 
home,  I  turn  them  over  and  over  again.  Do  write 
often,  my  sweet  little  correspondent,  and  believe  me," 
&c.  &c. 

Her  next  letter  to  her  mother,  written  in  March, 
was  in  a  melancholy  strain ;  but  as  if  to  avert  her 
parent's  consequent  anxieties,  she  concludes : 

"  I  hope  you  will  feel  no  concern  for  my  health  or 
happiness.  Do,  my  dear  mother,  try  to  be  cheerful, 
and  have  good  courage." 

"  I  have  been  to  the  Rensselaer  school,  to  attend 
the  philosophical  lectures.  They  are  delivered  by 
the  celebrated  Mr.  Eaton,  who  has  several  students, 
young  gentlemen.  I  hope  they  will  not  lose  their 
hearts  among  twenty  or  thirty  pretty  girls.  For  my 
part,  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  as  fast  as  might  be  upon 
the  good  old  lecturer,  as  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  he 
is  the  best  possible  safeguard,  with  his  philosophy  and 
his  apparatus ;  for  you  know  philosophy  and  love  are 
sworn  enemies  !" 

Miss  Davidson  returned  to  Plattsburgh  during  the 
spring  vacation.  Her  mother,  when  the  first  rapture 
of  reunion  was  over,  the  first  joy  at  finding  her  child 
unchanged  in  the  modesty  and  naturalness  of  her 
deportment,  and  fervour  of  her  affections,  became 
alarmed  at  the  indications  of  disease,  in  the  extreme 
fragility  of  her  person,  and  the  deep  arid  fluctuating 


BIOGRAPHY.  07 

colour  of  her  cheek.  Lucretia  insisted,  and,  deceived 
by  that  ever-deceiving  disease,  believed  she  was  well. 
She  was  gay  and  full  of  hope,  and  could  hardly  be 
persuaded  to  submit  to  her  father's  medical  prescrip 
tions  ;  but  the  well-known  crimson  spot,  that  so  often 
flushed  her  cheek,  was  regarded  by  him  with  the 
deepest  anxiety,  and  he  shortly  called  counsel.  During 
her  stay  at  home  she  wrote  a  great  deal.  Like  the 
bird,  which  is  to  pass  away  with  the  summer,  she 
seems  to  have  been  ever  on  the  wing,  pouring  forth 
the  spontaneous  melodies  of  her  soul.  The  following 
are  a  few  stanzas  from  a  piece 

"ON    SPRING." 

I  have  seen  the  fair  Spring,  I  have  heard  her  sweet  song1, 
As  she  passed  in  her  lightness  and  freshness  along ; 
The  blue  wave  rolled  deeper,  the  moss-crest  looked  bright, 
As  she  breathed  o'er  the  regions  of  darkness  and  night. 

I  have  seen  the  rose  bloom  on  the  youthful  cheek, 
And  the  dew  of  delight  'neath  the  bright  lash  break; 
The  bounding  footstep,  scarce  pressing  the  earth, 
And  the  lip  which  speaks  of  a  soul  of  mirth. 

I  have  seen  the  winter  with  brow  of  care, 
With  his  soulless  eye  and  his  snow-white  hair; 
And  whate'er  his  footsteps  had  touched  was  cold, 
As  the  lifeless  stone  which  the  sculptors  mould. 


As  I  knelt  by  the  sepulchre,  dreary  and  lone, 

Lay  the  beautiful  form  in  its  temple  of  stone; 

I  looked  for  its  coming, — the  warm  wind  passed  by, — 

I  looked  for  its  coming  on  earth  and  on  high. 

The  young  leaves  gleamed  brightly  around  the  cold  spot, 
I  looked  for  the  spirit,  yet  still  it  came  not. 
Shall  the  flower  of  the  valley  burst  forth  to  the  light, 
And  man  in  his  beauty  lie  buried  in  night  1 


nS  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

A  voice  on  the  waters,  a  voice  in  the  sky, 
A  voice  from  beneath,  and  a  voice  from  on  high, 
Proclaims  that  he  shall  not, — that  Spring,  in  her  light, 
Shall  waken  the  spirit  from  darkness  and  night. 

These  were  singular  speculations  for  a  beautiful 
girl  of  sixteen.  Were  there  not  spirits  ministering  to 
her  from  that  world  to  which  she  was  hastening  ? 

The  physician,  called  in  to  consult  with  her  father, 
was  of  opinion  that  a  change  of  air  and  scene  would 
probably  restore  her,  and  it  was  decided,  in  compli 
ance  with  her  own  wishes,  that  she  should  return  to 
school.  Miss  Gilbert's  boarding-school,  at  Albany, 
was  selected  for  the  next  six  months.  There  are  few 
more  of  her  productions  of  any  sort,  and  they  seem 
to  us  to  have  the  sweetness  of  the  last  roses  of  sum 
mer.  The  following  playful  passages  are  from  her 
last  letter  at  home  to  her  sister  in  Canada. 

"  The  boat  will  be  here  in  an  hour  or  two,  and  I 
am  all  ready  to  start.  Oh,  I  am  half  sick.  I  have 
taken  several  doses  of  something  quite  delectable  for 
a  visiting  treat.  Now,"  she  concludes  her  letter, 
"  by  your  affection  for  me,  by  your  pity  for  the  wan 
derer,  by  your  remembrance  of  the  absent,  by  your 
love  for  each  other,  and  by  all  that  is  sacred  to  an 
absent  friend,  I  charge  you,  write  to  me,  and  write 
often.  As  ye  hope  to  prosper,  as  ye  hope  your  boy 
to  prosper,  (and  grow  fat !)  as  ye  hope  for  my  grati 
tude  and  affection  now  and  hereafter,  I  charge  you, 
write.  If  ye  sinfully  neglect  this  last  solemn  injunc 
tion  of  a  parting  friend,  my  injured  spirit  will  visit 
you  in  your  transgressions.  It  shall  pierce  you  with 
goosequills,  and  hurl  down  upon  your  recreant  heads 
the  brimming  contents  of  the  neglected  inkstand. 
This  is  my  threat,  and  this  is  my  vengeance.  But 
if,  on  the  contrary,  ye  shall  see  fit  to  honour  me  with 
numerous  epistles,  which  shall  be  duly  answered. 


BIOGRAPHY.  69 

know  ye,  that  I  will  live  and  love  you,  and  not  only 
you,  but  your  boy!  So  you  see  upon  your_own  bear 
ing  depends  the  future  fate  of  the  little  innocent,  « to 
be  beloved,  or  not  to  be  beloved  !'  They  have  come  ! 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell !" — 

She  proceeded  to  Albany,  and  in  a  letter  dated 
May  12th,  1825,  she  seems  delighted  with  her  recep 
tion,  accommodations,  and  prospects,  at  Miss  Gilbert's 
school.  She  has  yet  no  anxieties  about  her  health, 
and  enters  on  her  career  of  study  with  her  customary 
ardour.  With  the  most  delicate  health  and  constant 
occupation,  she  found  time  always  to  write  long  let 
ters  to  her  mother,  and  the  little  children  at  home 
filled  with  fond  expressions.  What  an  example  and 
rebuke  to  the  idle  school-girl  who  finds  no  time  for 
these  minor  duties !  But  her  studies,  to  which  she 
applied  herself  beyond  her  strength,  from  the  con 
scientious  fear  of  not  fulfilling  the  expectations  of  her 
friends,  were  exhausting  the  sources  of  life.  Her 
letters  teem  with  expressions  of  gratitude  to  her 

friend   Mr.  K ,  to  Miss  Gilbert,  and   to   all  the 

friends  around  her.  She  complains  of  debility  and 
want  of  appetite,  but  imputes  all  her  ailings  to  not 
hearing  regularly  from  home.  The  mails  were  of 
course  at  fault,  for  her  mother's  devotion  never  in 
termitted.  The  following  expressions  will  show  that 
her  sensibility,  naturally  acute,  was  rendered  intense 
by  physical  disease  and  suffering. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  mother,  cannot  you  send  your  Luly 
one  line  ?  Not  one  word  in  two  weeks  !  I  have  done 
nothing  but  weep  all  day  long.  I  feel  so  wretchedly! 
I  am  afraid  you  are  ill." 

"  I  am   very  wretched,   indeed  I  am.     My  dear 

mother,  am  I  never  to  hear  from  you  again?     I  am 

home-sick.     I  know  I  am  foolish ;  but  I  cannot  help 

it.     To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  half  sick.     I  am  so  weak 

6 


70  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

so  languid,  I  cannot  eat.  I  am  nervous,  I  know  I 
am ;  I  weep  most  of  the  time.  I  have  blotted  the 
paper  so,  that  I  cannot  write.  I  cannot  study  much 
longer  if  I  do  not  hear  from  you." 

Letters  from  home  renovated  her  for  a  few  days, 
and  at  Mr.  K.'s  request,  she  went  to  the  theatre,  and 
gave  herself  up,  with  all  the  freshness  of  youthful 
feeling,  to  the  spells  of  the  drama,  and  raved  about 
Hamlet  and  Ophelia  like  any  other  school-girl. 

But  her  next  letter  recurs  to  her  malady,  and  for 
the  first  time,  she  expresses  a  fear  that  her  disease  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  common  remedies.  Her  mother 
was  alarmed,  and  would  have  gone  immediately  to 
her,  but  she  was  herself  confined  to  her  room  by  ill 
ness.  Her  father's  cooler  judgment  inferred  from 
their  receiving  no  letters  from  Lucretia's  friends, 
that  there  was  nothing  immediately  alarming  in  her 
symptoms. 

The  next  letter  removed  every  doubt.  It  was 
scarcely  legible;  still  she  assures  her  mother  she  is 
better,  and  begs  she  will  not  risk  the  consequences  of 
a  long  journey.  But  neither  health  nor  life  weighed 
now  with  the  mother  against  seeing  her  child.  She 
set  off,  and  by  appointment,  joined  Mr.  K.  at  White 
hall.  They  proceeded  thence  to  Albany,  where,  after 
the  first  emotions  of  meeting  were  over,  Lucretia  said, 
"  Oh  mamma,  I  thought  I  should  never  have  seen  you 
again  !  But,  now  I  have  you  here,  and  can  lay  my 
aching  head  upon  your  bosom,  I  shall  soon  be  better." 

For  a  few  days  the  balm  seemed  effectual ;  she 
was  better,  and  the  physicians  believed  she  would 
recover ;  but  her  mother  was  no  longer  to  be  per 
suaded  from  her  conviction  of  the  fatal  nature  of  the 
disease,  and  arrangements  were  immediately  made 
to  convey  her  to  Plattsburgh.  The  journey  was  ef- 


BIOGRAPHY.  71 

fected,  notwithstanding  it  was  during  the  heats  of 
July,  with  less  physical  suffering  than  was  appre 
hended.  She  shrunk  painfully  from  the  gaze  her 
beauty  inevitably  attracted,  heightened  as  it  was  by 
that  disease  which  seems  to  delight  to  deck  the  vic 
tim  for  its  triumph.  "  Her  joy  upon  finding  herself 
at  home,"  says  her  mother,  "  operated  for  a  time  like 
magic."  The  sweet  health-giving  influence  of  do 
mestic  love,  the  home  atmosphere,  seemed  to  suspend 
the  progress  of  her  disease,  and  again  her  father, 
brothers  and  friends  were  deluded  ;  all  but  the  mo 
ther  and  the  sufferer.  She  looked,  with  prophetic 
eye,  calmly  to  the  end.  There  was  nothing  to  dis 
turb  her.  That  kingdom  that  cometh  "  without  ob 
servation"  was  within  her,  and  she  was  only  about 
to  change  its  external  circumstances,  about  to  put  off 
the  harness  of  life  in  which  she  had  been  so  patient 
and  obedient.  To  the  last  she  manifested  her  love 
of  books.  A  trunk  filled  with  them  had  not  been 
unpacked.  She  requested  her  mother  to  open  it  at 
her  bed-side,  and  as  each  book  was  given  to  her,  she 
turned  over  the  leaves,  kissed  it,  and  desired  to  have 
it  placed  on  a  table  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  There 
they  remained  to  the  last,  her  eye  often  fondly  resting 
on  them. 

She  expressed  a  strong  desire  to  see  Mr.  Kent 
once  more,  and  a  fear  that  though  he  had  been  sum 
moned,  he  might  not  arrive  in  time.  He  came,  how 
ever,  to  receive  the  last  expressions  of  her  gratitude, 
and  to  hear  his  own  name  the  last  pronounced  by 
her  lips. 

The  "  Fear  of  Madness"  was  written  by  her  while 
confined  to  her  bed,  and  was  the  last  piece  she  ever 
wrote.  As  it  constitutes  a  part  of  the  history  of  her 
disease,  it  is,  though  already  published,  inserted  here 


72  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

There  is  a  something  which  I  dread, 

It  is  a  dark  and  fearful  thing; 
It  steals  along  with  withering  tread, 

Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 

Of  grief,  of  sickness,  or  of  sadness ; 
JT  is  not  the  dread  of  death ;  't  is  more,-— 

It  is  the  dread  of  madness. 

Oh !  may  these  throbbing  pulses  pause, 

Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course ; 
May  this  hot  brain,  which,  burning,  glows 

With  all  a  fiery  whirlpool's  force, 

Be  cold,  and  motionless,  and  still 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed  ; 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal  — 
(Unfinished.) 

That  the  records  of  the  last  scenes  of  Lucretia 
Davidson's  life  are  scanty,  is  not  surprising.  The 
materials  for  this  memoir,  it  must  be  remembered, 
were  furnished  by  her  mother.  A  victim  stretched 
on  the  rack  cannot  keep  records.  She  says  in  general 
terms,  **  Lucretia  frequently  spoke  to  me  of  her  ap 
proaching  dissolution,  with  perfect  calmness,  and  as 
an  event  that  must  soon  take  place.  In  a  conversa 
tion  with  Mr.  Townsend,  held  at  intervals,  as  her 
strength  would  permit,  she  expressed  the  same  senti 
ments  she  expressed  to  me  before  she  grew  so  weak. 
She  declared  her  firm  faith  in  the  Christian  religion 
her  dependence  on  the  divine  promises,  which  she 
said  had  consoled  and  sustained  her  during  her  illness. 
She  said  her  hopes  of  salvation  were  grounded  on  the 
merits  of  her  Saviour,  and  that  death,  which  hacj 
once  looked  so  dreadful  to  her,  was  now  divested  of 
all  its  terrors." 

Welcome,  indeed,  should  that  messenger  have  beei; 


BIOGRAPHY.  73 

that  opened  the  gates  of  knowledge,  and  blissful  im 
mortality,  to  such  a  spirit ! 

During  Miss  Davidson's  residence  in  Albany,  which 
was  less  than  three  months,  she  wrote  several  miscel 
laneous  pieces,  and  began  a  long  poem,  divided  into 
cantos,  and  entitled  "  Maritorne,  or  the  Pirate  of 
Mexico."  This  she  deemed  better  than  anything  she 
had  previously  produced.  The  amount  of  her  com 
positions,  considering  the  shortness  and  multifarious 
occupations  of  a  life  of  less  than  seventeen  years,  is 
surprising.* 

We  copy  the  subjoined  paragraph  from  the  bio 
graphical  sketch  prefixed  to  "  Amir  Khan."  "  Her 
poetical  writings,  which  have  been  collected,  amount 
in  all  to  two  hundred  and  seventy-eight  pieces  of 
various  lengths.  When  it  is  considered,  that  there 
are  among  these  at  least  five  regular  poems,  of  several 
cantos  each,  some  estimate  may  be  formed  of  her 
poetical  labours.  Besides  these  were  twenty-four 
school  exercises,  three  unfinished  romances,  a  com 
plete  tragedy,  written  at  thirteen  years  of  age,  and 
about  forty  letters,  in  a  few  months,  to  her  mother 
alone."  This  statement  does  not  comprise  the  large 
proportion  (at  least  one-third  of  the  whole)  which  she 
destroyed. 

The  genius  of  Lucretia  Davidson  has  had  the  meed 
of  far  more  authoritative  praise  than  ours.  The 
following  tribute  is  from  the  "  London  Quarterly 
Review ;"  a  source  whence  praise  of  American  pro 
ductions  is  as  rare  as  springs  in  the  desert.  The 
notice  is  by  Mr.  Southey,  and  is  written  with  the 
earnest  feeling  that  characterizes  that  author,  as 
generous  as  he  is  discriminating.  "  In  these  poems," 

*  She  died  on  the  27th  of  August,  1825,  just  a  month  before 
her  seventeenth  birthday. 
6* 


74  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

(Amir  Khan,  &c.)  "  there  is  enough  of  originality, 
enough  of  aspiration,  enough  of  conscious  energy, 
enough  of  growing  power,  to  warrant  any  expecta 
tions,  however  sanguine,  which  the  patrons,  and  the 
friends,  and  parents  of  the  deceased  could  have 
formed." 

But,  prodigious  as  the  genius  of  this  young  creature 
was,  still  marvellous  after  all  the  abatements  that 
may  be  made  for  precociousness  and  morbid  develop 
ment,  there  is  something  yet  more  captivating  in 
her  moral  loveliness.  Her  modesty  was  not  the 
infusion  of  another  mind,  not  the  result  of  cultivation, 
not  the  effect  of  good  taste  ;  nor  was  it  a  veil  cau 
tiously  assumed  and  gracefully  worn ;  but  an  innate 
quality,  that  made  her  shrink  from  incense,  even 
though  the  censer  were  sanctified  by  love.  Her 
mind  was  like  the  exquisite  mirror,  that  cannot  be 
stained  by  human  breath. 

Few  may  have  been  gifted  with  her  genius,  but  all 
can  imitate  her  virtues.  There  is  a  universality  in  the 
holy  sense  of  duty,  that  regulated  her  life.  Few  young 
ladies  will  be  called  on  to  renounce  the  muses  for  do 
mestic  duties ;  but  many  may  imitate  Lucretia  David 
son's  meek  self-sacrifice,  by  relinquishing  some  favour 
ite  pursuit,  some  darling  object,  for  the  sake  of  an 
humble  and  unpraised  duty  ;  and,  if  few  can  attain  her 
excellence,  all  may  imitate  her  in  gentleness,  humility, 
industry,  and  fidelity  to  her  domestic  affections.  We 
may  apply  to  her  the  beautiful  lines,  in  which  she 
describes  one  of  those 

-forms,  that,  wove  in  Fancy's  loom, 


Float  in  light  visions  round  the  poet's  head." 

She  was  a  being  formed  to  love  and  bless, 
With  lavish  nature's  richest  loveliness; 
Such  I  have  often  seen  in  Fancy's  eye, 
Beings  too  bright  for  dull  mortality. 


BIOGRAPHY.  75 

I  Ve  seen  them  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
I've  faintly  seen  them  when  enough  of  light 
And  dim  distinctness  gave  them  to  my  gaze, 
As  forms  of  other  worlds,  or  brighter  days.'* 

This  memoir  may  be  fitly  concluded  by  the  follow 
ng  "  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  my  Sister,"  by  Mar 
garet  Davidson,  who  was  but  two  years  old  at  the 
time  of  Lucretia's  death,  and  whom  she  often  men 
tions  with  peculiar  fondness.  The  lines  were  written 
at  the  age  of  eleven.  May  we  be  allowed  to  say,  that 
the  mantle  of  the  elder  sister  has  fallen  on  the  younger, 
and  that  she  seems  to  be  a  second  impersonation  of 
her  spirit'? 

"  Though  thy  freshness  and  beauty  are  laid  in  the  tomb, 
Like  the  floweret  which  drops  in  its  verdure  and  bloom; 
Though  the  halls  of  thy  childhood  now  mourn  thee  in  vain, 
And  thy  strains  shall  ne'er  waken  their  echoes  again, 
Still  o'er  the  fond  memory  they  silently  glide, 
Still,  still  thou  art  ours,  and  America's  pride. 
Sing  on  thou  pure  seraph,  with  harmony  crowned, 

And  pour  the  full  tide  of  thy  music  along, 
O'er  the  broad  arch  of  Heaven  the  sweet  note  shall  resound, 

And  a  bright  choir  of  angels  shall  echo  the  song 
The  pure  elevation  which  beamed  from  thine  eye, 
As  it  turned  to  its  home  in  yon  fair  azure  sky, 
Told  of  something  unearthly ;  it  shone  with  the  light 
Of  pure  inspiration  and  holy  delight. 
Round  the  rose  that  is  withered  a  fragrance  remains; 
O'er  beauty  in  ruins  the  mind  proudly  reigns. 
Thy  lyre  has  resounded  o'er  ocean's  broad  wave, 
And  the  tear  of  deep  anguish  been  shed  o'er  thy  grave; 
But  thy  spirit  has  mounted  to  mansions  on  high, 
To  the  throne  of  its  God,  where  it  never  can  die." 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  MY  MUSE. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

WHY,  gentle  Muse,  wilt  thou  disdain 
To  lend  thy  strains  to  me? 

Why  do  I  supplicate  in  vain 
And  bow  my  heart  to  thee  ? 

Oh !  teach  me  how  to  touch  the  lyre, 
To  tune  the  trembling  chord ; 

Teach  me  to  fill  each  heart  with  fire, 
And  melting  strains  afford. 

Sweep  but  thy  hand  across  the  string, 

The  woodlands  echo  round, 
And  mortals  wond'ring,  as  you  sing, 

Delighted  'catch  each  sound. 

Enchanted  when  thy  voice  I  hear, 

I  drop  each  earthly  care ; 
I  feel  as  wafted  from  the  world 

To  Fancy's  realms  of  air. 

Then  as  I  wander,  plaintive  sing, 
And  teach  me  every  strain ; 

Teach  me  to  touch  the  trembling  string 
Which  now  I  strike  in  vain. 

(79) 


AMIR  KHAN. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

PART  I. 

BRIGHTLY  o'e;  spire,  and  dome,  and  tower. 
The  pale  moon  shone  at  midnight  hour, 
While  all  beneath  her  smile  of  light 
Was  resting  there  in  calm  delight ; 
Evening  with  robe  of  stars  appears, 
Bright  as  repentant  Peri's  tears, 
And  o'er  her  turban's  fleecy  fold 
Night's  crescent  stream'd  with  rays  of  gold, 
While  every  crystal  cloud  of  Heaven 
Bowed  as  it  passed  the  queen  of  even. 

Beneath — calm  Cashmere's  lovely  vale1 
Breathed  perfumes  to  the  sighing  gale ; 
The  amaranth  and  tuberose, 
Convolvulus  in  deep  repose, 
Bent  to  each  breeze  which  swept  their  bed, 
Or  scarcely  kissed  the  dew,  and  fled 
The  bulbul,  with  his  lay  of  love  :2 
Sang,  'mid  the  stillness  of  the  grove  ; 
The  gulnare  blushed  a  deeper  hue,3 
And  trembling  shed  a  shower  of  dew, 
Which  perfumed  ere  it  kiss'd  the  ground, 
Each  zephyr's  pinion  hovering  round. 

7  « 


82  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  lofty  plane-tree's  haughty  brow4 
Glitter'd  beneath  the  moon's  pale  glow ; 
And  wide  the  plantain's  arms  were  spread,5 
The  guardian  of  its  native  bed. 

Where  was  Amreta  at  this  hour  ? 

Say  !  was  she  slumb'ring  in  her  bower? 

Or  gazing  on  this  scene  of  rest, 

Less  calm,  less  peaceful  than  her  breast  ? 

Or  was  she  resting  in  the  dream 

Of  brighter  days,  on  Fortune's  stream  ? 

Or  was  she  weeping  Friendship  broken, 

Or  sighing  o'er  Love's  wither'd  token  ? 

No  ! — she  was  calmly  resting  there, 
Her  eye  ne'er  spoke  of  hope  nor  fear, 
But  'mid  the  blaze  of  splendour  round, 
For  ever  bent  upon  the  ground, 
Their  long,  dark  lashes  hid  from  view, 
The  brilliant  glances  which  they  threw. 
Her  cheek  was  neither  pale  nor  red  ; 
The  rose,  upon  its  summer  bed, 
Could  never  boast  so  faint  a  hue ; 
So  faint,  and  yet  so  brilliant  too ! 

Though  round  her,  Cashmere's  incense  streamed 
Though  Persia's  gems  around  her  beamed  ; 
Though  diamonds  of  Golconda  shed 
Their  warmest  lustre  o'er  her  head 
Though  music  lulled  each  fear  to  sleep, 
Or  like  the  night-wind  o'er  the  deep ; 
Just  waking  love  and  calm  delight, 
Kindling  Hope's  watch-fire  clear  and  bright; 
For  her,  though  Cashmere's  roses  twine 
Together  round  the  parent  vine; 


POETICAL   REMAINS. 

And  though  to  her,  as  Cashmere's  star, 

Knelt  the  once  haughty  Subahdar  ;6 

Still,  still,  Amreta  gazed  unmoved, 

Nor  sighed,  nor  smiled,  nor  owned  she  loved! 

But,  like  the  Parian  marble  there, 

So  bright,  so  exquisitely  fair, 

She  seemed  by  Nature  famed  to  bless, 

Rich  in  surpassing  loveliness. 

But  never  from  those  lips  of  red 

A  single  syllable  had  fled, 

Since  Amir  Khan  first  blessed  the  hour7 

That  placed  Amreta  in  his  bower; 

Within  that  bower,  'mid  twining  roses, 

Upon  whose  leaves  the  breeze  reposes, 

She  sits  unmoved,  while  round  her  flow. 

Strains  of  sweet  music,  sad  and  low; 

Or  now,  in  softer  numbers  breathing, 

A  song  of  love  and  sorrow  wreathing, 

Such  strains  as  in  wild  sweetness  ran 

Through  the  sad  breast  of  Amir  Khan  ! 

He  loved, — and  oh!  —  he  loved  so  well 
That  sorrow  scarce  dared  break  the  spell ; 
Though  oft  Suspicion  whispered  near 
One  vague,  one  sadly  boding  fear, 
A  fear  that  Heaven  in  wrath  had  made 
That  face  with  seraph-charms  array'd, 
And  then  denied  in  mockery  there, 
To  breathe  upon  a  face  so  fair  ! 
Without  that  spark  of  heav'nly  flame, 
Which  burns  unchanging,  still  the  same, 
Without  that  bright  ethereal  charm, 
Oh  !  what  were  beauty's  angel  form  ? 

The  breeze  as  it  sweeps  o'er  the  poisonous  flow'r, 
Dripping  with  night's  damp  blistering  show'r, 


84  LUORETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Laden  with  woe,  disease,  and  death, 
Fading  youth's  bloom  with  its  passing  breath 
Blighting  each  flower  of  various  hue, 
Ne'er  o'er  its  fated  victim  threw 
So  dark  a  shade,  a  cloud  so  drear, 
As  hovered  o'er  the  Subahdar. 

Cool  and  refreshing  sighs  the  breeze 
Through  the  long  walk  of  tzinnar-trees,8 
And  cool  upon  the  water's  breast 
The  pale  moon  rocks  herself  to  rest, — 
Yes  !  calmer,  brighter,  cooler  far 
Than  the  fever'd  brow  of  the  Subahdar  1 

Amreta  was  fair  as  the  morning  beam, 

As  it  glides  o'er  the  wave  of  the  Waller's  stream,1 

Bat  oh !  she  was  cold  as  the  marble  floor 

That  glitters  beneath  the  nightly  shower. 

Where  was  that  eye  which  none  could  scan, 

Which  once  belonged  to  Amir  Khan? 

Where  was  that  >voice  that  mocked  the  storm  ? 

Where  was  that  tall,  majestic  form  ? 

That  eye  was  turn'd  in  love  and  woe 

Upon  Amreta's  changeless  brow, 

That  haughty  form  was  bending  low, 

That  voice  was  utt'ring  vow  on  vow, 

Beneath  the  lofty  plane-tree's  shade, 

Before  that  cold  Circassian  maid  ! 

"  Oh  speak,  Amreta !  —  but  one  word  ! 
Let  one  soft  sigh  confess  I'm  heard ! 
Those  eyes  (than  those  of  yon  gazelle 
More  bright)  a  tale  of  love  might  tell ! 
Then  speak,  Amreta !  raise  thine  eye, 
Blush,  smile,  or  answer  with  a  sigh." 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  85 

But  'twas  in  vain — no  sigh — no  word 
Told  that  his  humble  suit  was  heard ; 
Veiled  'neath  their  silken  lashes  there, 
Her  dark  eyes  glanc'd  no  answered  pray'r-, 
Upon  her  cheek  no  blush  was  straying, 
Around  her  lip  no  smile  was  playing, 
And  calm  despair  reigned  darkly  now, 
O'er  Amir  Khan's  deep-clouded  brow. 

What  pity  that  .so  fair  a  form 

Should  want  a  heart  with  feeling  warm  ! 

What  pity  that  an  eye  so  bright 

Should  beam  o'er  Reason's  clouded  night ! 

And  like  a  star  on  Mahmoud's  wave,10 

Should  glitter  o'er  a  dreary  grave : 

A  dark  abyss  —  a  sunless  day, 

An  endless  night  without  one  ray. 

'T  was  at  that  day,  that  silent  hour, 
When  the  tall  poppy  sheds  its  show'r, 
When  all  on  earth,  and  all  on  high 
Seemed  breathing  slumber's  sweetest  sigh ; 
At  that  calm  hour  when  Peris  love 
To  gaze  upon  the  Heaven  above, 
Whose  portals,  bright  with  many  a  gem. 
Are  closed — for  ever  closed  on  them; 
'T  was  at  this  silent,  solemn  hour, 
That,  gliding  from  his  summer  bower. 
The  Subahdar  with  noiseless  step 
Steals  like  the  night-breeze  o'er  the  deep. 

Where  glides  the  haughty  Subahdar? 
Onward  he  glides  to  where  afar 
Proud  Hirney-Purvet  rears  his  head11 
High  above  Cashmere's  blooming  bed, 

7* 


86  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

And  twines  his  turban's  fleecy  fold 
With  many  a  brilliant  ray  of  gold, 
Or  places  on  his  brow  of  blue 
The  crescent  with  its  silver  hue ; 

There  'neath  a  plantain's  sacred  shade, 
Which  deep,  and  dark,  and  widely  spread, 
Al  Shinar's  high  prophetic  form 
Held  secret  counsel  with  the  storm; 
His  hand  had  grasped,  with  fearless  migrht, 
The  mantle  of  descending  night ; 
Such  matchless  skill  the  prophet  knew, 
Such  wond'rous  feats  his  hand  could  do, 
That  Persia's  realm  astonished  saw, 
And  Cashmere's  valley  gazed  with  awe ' 

Low  bowed  the  lofty  Amir  Khan, 
Before  the  high  and  mighty  man. 
And  bending  o'er  the  Naptha's  stream, 
Which  onward  rolled  its  fiery  gleam, 
The  Subahdar  in  murmurs  told 
Of  beauteous  form,  of  bosom  cold, 
Of  rayless  eye,  of  changeless  cheek, 
Of  tongue  which  could  or  would  not  speak 

At  length  the  mourner's  tale  had  ceased, 

He  crossed  his  hands  upon  his  breast, 

He  spoke  no  word,  he  breathed  no  sigh, 

But  keenly  fixed  his  piercing  eye 

Upon  Al  Shinar's  gloomy  brow, 

In  all  the  deep  despair  of  woe ; 

The  Prophet  paused  ;  —  his  eye  he  raised, 

And  stern  and  earnestly  he  gazed, 

As  if  to  pierce  the  sable  veil 

Which  would  conceal  the  mournful  tale ;  — 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  87 

When,  starting  with  a  sudden  blow, 
He  op'd  a  portal  dark  and  low, 
Which  shrouded  from  each  mortal  eye 
Al  Shinar's  cavern  broad  and  high ; 
'T  was  bright,  't  was  exquisitely  bright, 
For  founts  of  rich  and  living  light 
There  poured  their  burning  treasures  forth, 
Which  sought  again  their  parent  earth. 

Rich  vases,  with  sweet  incense  streaming, 
Mirrors  a  flood  of  brilliance  beaming, 
Fountain,  and  bath,  and  curling  stream, 
At  every  turn  before  them  beam  ; 
And  marble  pillars,  pure  and  cold, 
And  glitt'ring  roof,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And  gems,  and  diamonds  met  his  view 
In  wild  and  rich  profusion  too ; 
And  had  Amreta's  smiles  been  given, 
This  place  had  been  the  Moslem  heaven ! 

The  Prophet  paused  ; — while  Amir  Khan 
Gazed,  awe-struck,  on  the  wond'rous  man : 
Al  Shinar  plucked  a  pale  blue  flow'r, 
Which  bent  beneath  the  fountain's  show'r, 
Then  slowly  turned  towards  Amir  Khan, 
And  placed  the  treasure  in  his  hand. 

"  Mark  me  !"  he  cried  ; — "  this  pensive  flower, 
Gathered  at  midnight's  magic  hour, 
Will  charm  each  passion  of  the  breast, 
And  calm  each  throbbing  nerve  to  rest; 
'T  will  leave  thy  bounding  bosom  warm, 
Yet  set  death's  seal  upon  thy  form  ; 
'T  will  Jeave  thee  stiff,  and  cold,  and  pale, 
A  slumberer  'neath  an  icy  veil, 


S8  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  still  shall  Reason's  conscious  reign 
Unbroken,  undisturbed  remain, 
And  thou  shalt  hear,  and  feel,  and  know 
Each  sigh,  each  touch,  each  throb  of  woe !" 

Go,  thou !  and  if  Amreta  be 
Worthy  of  love,  and  worthy  thee, 
When  she  beholds  thee  pale  and  cold, 
Wrapped  in  the  damp  sepulchral  fold;  — 
When  her  eye  wanders  for  that  glow 
Once  burning  on  thy  marble  brow ; 
Then,  if  her  bosom's  icy  frame 
Hath  ever  warmed  'neath  passion's  flame, 
'Twill  heave  tumultuous  as  it  glows 
Like  Baikal's  everlasting  throes; 
And  if,  to-morrow  eve,  you  press 
This  pale  cold  flow'ret  to  your  breast, 
Ere  morning  smiles,  its  spell  will  prove 
If  that  cold  heart  BE  WORTH  thy  love !  — 


PART  II. 

THERE'S  silence  in  the  princely  halls, 
And  brightly  blaze  the  lighted  walls, 
While  clouds  of  musk  and  incense  rise 
From  vases  of  a  thousand  dyes, 
And  roll  their  perfumed  treasures  wide, 
In  one  luxuriant,  fragrant  tide; 
And  glittering  chandeliers  of  gold, 
Reflecting  fire  from  every  fold, 
Hung  o'er  the  shrouded  body  there, 
Of  Cashmere's  once  proud  Subahdar ! 
The  crystal's  and  the  diamond's  rays 
Kindled  a  wide  and  brilliant  blaze; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  89 

The  ruby's  blush,  the  coral's  hue, 
By  Peris  dipped  in  Henni's  dew, 
The  topaz's  rich  and  golden  ray, 
The  opal's  flame  —  the  agate  grey, 
The  amethyst  of  violet  hue, 
The  sapphire  with  its  heav'nly  blue, 
The  snow-white  jasper  sparkling  there 
Near  the  carbuncle's  deep'ning  glare  ; 
The  warm  cornelian's  blushing  glow 
Reflected  back  the  brilliant  flow 
Of  light,  which  in  refulgent  streams, 


* 


O'er  hall,  o'er  bower,  and  fountain  beams. 

O'er  beds  of  roses,  bright  with  dew, 
Unfolding  modestly  to  view, 
Each  trembling  leaf,  each  blushing  breast, 
In  Cashmere's  wildest  sweetness  dressed ; 
Through  vistas  long,  through  myrtle  bower? 
Where  Amir  Khan  once  passed  his  hours 
In  gazing  on  Amreta's  face, 
So  full  of  beauty,  full  of  grace, 
Through  veils  of  silver  bright  and  clear, 
It  poured  its  softened  radiance  far; 
Or  beamed  in  pure  and  milky  brightness, 
O'er  urns  of  alabaster  whiteness ; 
Through  Persian  screens  of  glittering  gold, 
O'er  many  an  altar's  sacred  fold, 
Where  to  Eternity  will  blaze 
The  naphtha's  never-fading  rays, 
The  Gheber's  fire  which  dieth  never, 
But  burns,  and  beams,  and  glows  for  ever ! 

'Twas  silent — not  a  voice  was  heard — 
No  sigh,  no  murmur,  not  one  word, 
Was  echoed  through  that  brilliant  hall, 
The  spell  of  silence  hung  o'er  all ; 


90  LUGRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


For  there  had  paused  the  wing  of  death, 
The  midnight  spirit's  withering  breath. 


At  that  still  hour  no  sound  arose 
To  break  the  charm  of  deep  repose ; 
The  lake  was  glittering,  and  the  breeze 
Sighed  softly  through  the  the  tzinnar  trees, 
And  kissed  the  Wuller's  wave  of  blue, 
Or  sipped  the  gull's  light  trembling  dew; 
But  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sigh 
Was  wafted  by  the  night-breeze  by, 
Through  that  wide  hall  and  princely  bower, 
At  midnight's  calm  and  solemn  hour  ! 

Oh !  where  was  Love,  his  night-watch  keeping  1 
Or  was  the  truant  sweetly  sleeping? 
Where  was  he  at  that  hour  of  rest, 
By  him  created,  claimed",  and  blessed? 
Where  were  the  tears  of  Love,  and  Sorrow, 
The  sigh  which  sympathy  can  borrow  ? 
Where  were  regret,  and  chill  despair? 
Where  was  Amreta? — where,  Oh  where? 

Hark  !  't  is  the  night-breeze  softly  playing, 
Through  veils  of  glittering  silver  straying — 
No !  't  is  a  step — so  quick,  so  light, 
That  the   wild  flower  which  weeps  at  night. 
Would  raise  again  its  drooping  head, 
To  greet  the  footstep  which  had  fled. 

Tis  not  the  breeze  which  floats  around, 
Lifting  the  light  veil  from  the  ground: 
No !  't  is  a  form  of  heav'nly  mien 
Hath  dared  to  draw  the  curtain's  screen. 

Dimly,  behind  the  fluttering  veil, 
Which  trembles  in  the  breathing  gale, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  91 

A.  form  appears  of  seraph  mould 
As  'neath  a  light  cloud's  fleecy  fold; 
The  veil  is  drawn  with  hasty  hand, 
Loosed  is  the  rich  embroidered  band — 
'Tis  solemn  solitude  around, 
There 's  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound — 
Again  a  snowy  hand  is  seen, 
Again  is  raised  the  silken  screen, 
And  lo  !  with  light  and  noiseless  tread, 
Amreta  glided  from  its  shade ! 

Her  veil  was  fluttering  in  the  air, 
Her  brow,  as  Parian  marble  fair, 
Was  glittering  bright  with  many  a  gem 
Set  in  a  brilliant  diadem ; 
Her  long  dark  hair  was  floating  far, 
Braided  with  many  a  diamond  star; 
Her  eye  was  raised,  and  Oh  !  that  eye 
Seemed  only  formed  to  gaze  on  high ! 
For  Oh,  more  piercing  bright  its  beam 
Than  diamonds  'neath  Golconda's  stream: 
That  angel-eye  was  only  given 
To  look  upon  its  native  heaven  ! 
The  glow  upon  her  cheek  wras  bright, 
But  it  came,  and  it  fled  like  a  meteor's  light, 
A  brilliant  tear  was  still  lingering  there, 
And  Oh,  it  was  shed  for  the  Subahdar ! 

O'er  ev'ry  tear  the  maiden  shed, 
The  heart  of  Amir  Khan  had   bled ; 
Now  Amir  Khan,  she  weeps  for  thee, 
Oh!  what  must  be  thy  ecstasy? 
For  Amir  Khan  Amreta  weeps, 
Yet  Amir  Khan  unheeding  sleeps !          • 
Like  crystal  dew-drops  purely  glowing, 
O'er  his  pale  brow  her  tears  are  flowing: 


V2  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

She  wipes  them  with  her  veil  away, 
Less  sacred  far — less  sweet  than  they ! 

Where  was  that  eye  whose  ardent  gaze 
Had  warmed  her  bosom  with  its  rays  1 
Where  was  that  glance  of  love  and  woe? 
Where  was  that  proud  heart's  throbbing  glow1 
All,  all  was  cold  and  silent  there, 
And  all  was  death,  and  dark  despair! 
She  hid  her  face,  now  cold  and  pale, 
Within  her  sweetly  scented  veil ; 
Then  seized  her  lute,  and  a  strain  so  clear, 
So  soft,  so  mournful  arose  on  the  air, 
That  Oh !  it  was  sweet  as  the  music  of  heaven 
O'er  a  lost  one  returning,  a  sinner  forgiven ' 
Such  notes  as  repentance  in  sorrow  might  sing, 
Notes  wafted  to  heaven  by  Israfil's  wing : — 


SONG. 

Star  of  the  morning ! — this  bosom  was  cold, 
When  forced  from  my  native  shade, 

And  I  wrapp'd  me  around  in  my  mantle's  fold, 
A  mournful  Circassian  maid ! 

I  vowed  that  rapture  should  never  move 
This  changeless  cheek,  this  rayless  eye, 

I  vowed  to  feel  neither  bliss,  nor  love, — 
In  silence  to  meet  thee,  and  then  to  die ! 

Each  burning  sigh  thy  bosom  hath  breathed, 
Has  been  melting  that  chain  away ; 

The  galling  chain  which  around  me  I  wreath'd, 
On  the  morn  of  that  fatal  day ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  93 

Tis  done !  and  this  night  I  have  broken  the  vow 

Which  bound  me  in  silence  for  ever ! 
And  thy  spirit  hath  fled  from  a  world  of  woe, 

To  return  again,  never !  Oh  never ! 

My  soul  is  sad  !  and  my  heart  is  weary  ! 

For  thy  bosom  is  cold  to  me; 
Without  thy  smile  the  world  is  dreary, 

And  I  will  fly  with  thee ! 

Together  we  '11  float  down  eternity's  stream, 
Twin  stars  on  the  breast  of  the  billow, 

The  splendours  of  Paradise  round  us  shall  beam, 
And  thy  bosom  shall  be  my  pillow  ! 

Then  open  thine  arms  bright  star  of  the  morning ! 

My  grave  in  thy  bosom  shall  be, 
The  glories  of  Paradise  'round  us  are  dawning, 

My  Heaven  is  only  with  thee ! 


Hushed  were  the  words,  and  hush'd  the  song, 
Which  sadly,  sweetly  flow'd  along, 
But  Amir  Khan's  warm  heart  beat  high, 
Though  closed  and  rayless  was  his  eye ; 
And  every  note  which  struck  his  ear, 
Whisper'd  a  hovering  angel  near; 
And  each  warm  tear  that  wet  his  cheek, 
Her  long-concealed  regard  bespeak  ; 
His  bosom  bounded  to  be  free, 
And  fluttered,  —  wild  with  ecstasy  ! 
Oh  !  would  the  magic  charm  had  passed  ! 
Would  that  the  morn  would  break  at  last ! 
But  no  —  it  will  not,  may  not  be  ! 
He  is  not,  nor  can  yet  be  free! 
8 


94  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  hark  !  Amreta's  murmurs  rise, 
Sweet  as  the  bird  of  Paradise ; 
She  bowed  her  head,  and  deeply  sighed. 
"  Yes,  Amir  Khan,  I  am  thy  Bride ! 
And  here  the  crimson  hand  of  death 
Shall  wed  us  with  a  rosy  wreath  ! 
My  blood  shall  join  us  as  it  flows, 
And  bind  us  in  a  deep  repose !"  — 

Beneath  her  veil  a  light  is  beaming, 
A  dagger  in  her  hand  is  gleaming, 
And  livid  was  the  light  it  threw, 
A  pale,  cold,  death-like  stream  of  blue, 
Around  her  form  of  angel  brightness, 
And  o'er  her  brow  of  marble  whiteness  ! 

Awake !  Oh  !  Amir  Khan,  awake !  — 
Canst  thou  not  rouse  thee  for  her  sake  ? 
Beside  thee  can  Amreta  stand, 
The  fatal  dagger  in  her  hand, 
And  canst  thou  still  regardless  lie, 
And  let  thy  loved  Amreta  die  ? 
Awake !  oh,  Amir  Khan !  awake, 
And  rouse  thee  for  Amreta's  sake ! 

—  Like  lightning  from  a  midnight  cloud, 
The  Subahdar,  from  'neath  his  shroud, 
Burst  the  cold,  magic,  death-like  band, 
And  snatched  the  dagger  from  her  hand  ! 
The  maiden  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
And  deep,  and  lengthened  was  her  rest ! 
There  was  no  sigh,  no  murmur  there, 
And  scarcely  breathed  the  Subahdar, 
While  almost  fearing  to  be  blest, 
He  clasped  Amreta  to  his  breast ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  95 

Deep  buried  in  his  mantle's  fold, 
He  felt  not  that  her  cheek  was  cold  ; 
His  own  heart  throbbed  with  pleasure's  thrill, 
But  whispered  not  that  hers  was  still!  — 
— Yes  !  —  the  wild  flow  of  blissful  joy, 
Which,  bursting,  threatened  to  destroy, 
Gave  to  her  soul  a  rest  from  feeling ; 
A  transient  torpor  gently  stealing 
O'er  beating  pulse,  and  throbbing  breast, 
Had  calmed  her  ev'ry  nerve  to  rest ; 
—  But  see  !  the  tide  of  life  returns, 
Once  more  her  cheek  with  rapture  burns, 
Once  more  her  dark  eye's  heav'nly  beam 
Pours  forth  its  full  and  piercing  gleam, 
Once  more  her  heart  is  bounding  high, 
Too  full  to  weep  —  too  blest  to  sigh ! 


NOTES  TO  AMIR  KHAN. 


I. 

Beneath  calm  Cashmere's  lovely  vale,  &c. 

"  Cashmere,  called  the  happy  valley,  the  garden  in  perpetual 
spring,  and  the  Paradise  ofindia." 

II. 

The  bulbul,  with  his  lay  of  love,  &c. 
14  The  Bulbul,  or  Nightingale." 


96  .     LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

III. 

The  gulnare  blush'd  a  deeper  hue,  &c. 
"  Gulnare  or  Rose." 

IV. 

The  lofty  plane-tree's  haughty  brow,  &c. 

"  The  Plane-tree,  that  species  termed  Platanus  orientalis,  is 
commonly  cultivated  in  Cashmere,  where  it  is  said  to  arrive  at 
a  greater  perfection  than  in  any  other  country.  This  tree, 
which  in  most  parts  of  Asia  is  called  the  Chinur,  grows  to  the 
size  of  an  oak,  and  has  a  taper,  straight  trunk,  with  a  silver- 
coloured  bark,  and  its  leaf,  not  unlike  an  expanded  hand,  is  of  a 
pale  green.  When  in  full  toliage  it  has  a  grand  and  beautiful 
appearance,  and  in  hot  weather  affords  a  refreshing  shade." — 
Foster. 

V. 

And  wide  the  plantain's  arms  were  spread,  &c. 

"  Plantain-trees  are  supposed  to  prevent  the  plague  from 
visiting  places,  where  they  are  found  in  abundance." — Middle- 
ion's  Geography. 

VI. 

Knelt  the  once  haughty  Subahdar,  &c. 
"  Subahdar,  or  Governor." 

VII. 

Since  Amir  Khan  first  blessed  the  hour,  &c. 

•*  To  the  east  of  this  delightful  spot  is  a  fortified  palace,  erected 
by  Amir  Khan,  a  Persian,  who  was  once  Governor  of  Cashmere 
He  used  to  pass  much  of  his  time  in  this  residence,  which  was 
curiously  adapted  to  every  species  of  Asiatic  luxury." — See  En 
cyclopedia,  vol.  v.,  part  2. 

VIII. 

Through  the  long  walks  of  tzinnar-trees,  &c. 
"  Their  walks  are  curiously  laid  out,  and  set  on  both  sides 
with  tzinnar-trees,  a  species  of  poplar  unknown  in  Europe.     It 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  97 

grows  to  the  height  of  a  pine,  and  bears  a  fruit  resembling  the 
chestnut,  and  it  has  broad  leaves  like  those  of  the  vine." — Mid' 
dleton's  Geography. 

IX. 

As  it  glides  o'er  the  wave  of  the  Wuller's  stream,  &c. 

"  A  beautiful  river  passes  through  Cashmere,  called  the 
Ouller,  or  Wuller.  There  is  an  outlet,  where  it  runs  with 
greater  rapidity  and  force  than  elsewhere,  between  two  steep 
mountains,  whence  proceeding,  after  a  long  course,  it  joins  with 
the  Chelum. 

X. 

And  like  a  star  on  Mahmoud's  wave,  &c. 
"It  appears  like  a  lake  covered  with  rocks  and  mountains. 
Stones,  when  thrown  in,  make  a  surprising  noise,  and  the  river 
itself  is  deemed  unfathomable." — Middleton's  Geography. 

XL 

Proud  Hirney  Purvit  rears  his  head,  &c. 
"  There  is  an  oval  lake,  which  joins  the  Chelum  towards  the 
east. — The  Yucht  Suliman  and  Hirney  Purvit  form  the  two 
sides  of  what  may  be  called  a  grand  portal  to  the  lake.     They 
are  hills ;  one  of  which  is  sacred  to  the  great  Solyman. 


8* 


CHICOMICO. 


THIS  Poem  I  have  discovered  to  be  founded  on  the  following 
actual  occurrences:  During  the  Seminole  war,  Duncan  M.  Rim- 
mon,  (the  Rathmond  of  the  poem,)  a  Georgia  militiaman,  was 
captured  by  the  Indians.  Hillis-adjo,  their  chief,  condemned 
him  to  death.  He  was  bound ;  but  while  the  instruments  of 
torture  were  preparing,  the  tender-hearted  daughter  of  Hillis- 
adjo  (the  Chicomico  of  the  tale)  threw  herself  between  the  pris 
oner  and  his  executioners,  and  interceded  with  her  father  for  his 
release.  She  was  successful.  His  life  was  spared.  In  the  pro 
gress  of  the  war,  however,  it  was  the  fate  of  the  generous  Hillis- 
adjo  (the  prophet  Francis)  himself  to  be  taken  a  prisoner  of  war, 
and  it  was  thought  necessary  to  put  him  to  death.  These  are 
the  facts  which  Miss  D.  has  wrought  up,  with  other  characters, 
(probably  fictitious,)  to  compose  the  whole  of  this  poem.  The 
first  part  of  the  poem  is  so  incomplete,  that.  I  have  thought  it 
best  to  introduce  the  reader  immediately  to  the  second  part. 
The  war  had  broken  out.  Chicomico  had  solicited  the  presence 
of  Ompahaw,  a  venerable  chief,  to  aid  her  father  Hillis-adjo 
against  the  whites,  with  Rathmond  at  their  head.  The  battle 
is  described,  the  Indians  are  victorious,  and  Rathmond  is  taken 
prisoner.  Here  the  second  part  commences. 

EDITOR. 


CHICOMICO. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

PART   II. 

WHAT  sight  of  horror,  fear  and  woe, 
Now  greets  chief  Hillis-ha-ad-joe? 
What  thought  of  blood  now  lights  his  eye? 
What  victim  foe  is  doomed  to  die? 
For  his  cheek  is  flushed,  and  his  air  is  wild, 
And  he  cares  not  to  look  on  his  only  child. 
His  lip  quivers  with  rage,  his  eye  flashes  fire, 
And  his  bosom  beats  high  with  a  tempest  of  ire. 
Alas  !  't  is  Rathmond  stands  a  prisoner  now, 
Awaiting  death  from  Hillis-ha-ad-joe, 
From  Hillis-ha-ad-joe,  the  stern,  the  dread, 
To  whose  vindictive,  cruel,  savage  mind, 
Loss  after  loss  fast  following  from  behind, 
Had  only  added  thirst  insatiate  for  blood ; 
And  now  he  swore  by  all  his  heart  held  dear, 
That  limb  from  limb  his  victims  he  would  tear. 

But  ah !  young  Rathmond's  case  what  tongue  can  tell 
Upon  his  hapless  fate  what  heart  can  dwell? 
To  die  when  manhood  dawns  in  rosy  light, 

To  be  cut  off  in  all  the  bloom  of  life, 
To  view  the  cup  untasted  snatched  from  sight, 

Is  sure  a  thought  with  horror  doubly  rife 

(100) 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  .  101 

Alas,  poor  youth  !  how  sad,  how  faint  thy  heart ! 

When  memory  paints  the  forms  endeared  by  love 
From  these  so  soon,  so  horribly  to  part ; 

Oh !  it  would  almost  savage  bosoms  move ! 
But  unextinguished  Hope  still  lit  his  breast, 
And  aimless  still,  drew  scenes  of  future  rest ! 
Caught  at  each  distant  light  which  dimly  gleamed, 
Though  sinking  'mid  th'  abyss  o'er  which  it  beamed 
Like  the  poor  mariner,  who,  tossed  around, 
Strains  his  dim  eye  to  ocean's  farthest  bound, 
Paints,  in  each  snowy  wave,  assistance  near, 
And  as  it  rolls  away,  gives  up  to  fear: 
Dreads  to  look  round,  for  death  's  on  every  side, 
The  low'ring  clouds  above  the  ocean  wide: 
He  wails  alone  —  "and  scarce  forbears  to  weep,"* 
That  his  wreck'd  bark  still  lingers  on  the  deep ! 

E'en  to  the  child  of  penury  and  woe, 

Who  knows  no  friend  that  o'er  his  grave  will  weep, 
Whose  tears  in  childhood's  hour  were  taught  to  flow, 

Looks  with  dismay  across  death's  horrid  deep  ! 
Then,  when  suspended  o'er  that  awful  brink, 

Snatch'd  from  each  joy,  which  opening  life  may  give, 
Who  would  not  from  the  prospect  shuddering  shrink, 

And  murmur  out  one  hope-fraught  prayer  to  live!" 
But,  see !  the  captive  is  now  dragged  along, 
While  round  him  mingle  yell  and  wild  war-song ! 
The  ring  is  formed  around  the  high-raised  pile, 
Fagot  o'er  fagots  reared  with  savage  toil; 
Th'  impatient  warriors  watch  with  'burning  brands, 
To  toss  the  death-signs  from  their  ruthless  hands ! 
Nearer,  and  nearer  still  the  wretch  is  drawn, 
All  hope  of  life,  of  rescue,  now  is  gone  ! 
A  horrid  death  is  placed  before  his  eyes ; 
In  fancy  now  he  sees  the  flames  arise, 

*  Campbell. 


102  LU€RETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

He  hears  the  deaf'ning  yell  which  drowns  the  cry 
Of  the  poor  victim's  last,  dire  agony ! 
His  heart  was  sick,  he  strove  in  vain  to  pray 

To  that  great  God,  before  whose  awful  bar 
His  lighten'd  soul  was  soon  to  wing  its  way 

From  this  sad  world  to  other  realms  afar ! 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven's  blue  arch  above, 
That  pure  retreat  of  mercy  and  of  love; 
When,  lo !  two  fellow-sufferers  caught  his  eye, 
The  prophet  Montonoc  is  doomed  to  die  ! 
His  haughty  spirit  now  must  be  brought  low, 
Long  had  he  been  the  chieftain's  direst  foe: 
The  Indian's  face  was  wrapped  in  mystic  gloom, 
As  on  they  led  him  to  his  horrid  doom. 
A  hectic  flush  upon  his  dark  cheek  burned, 
His  eye  nor  to  the  right  nor  left  hand  turned : 
His  lip  nor  quivered,  nor  turned  pale  with  fear, 
Though  the  death-note  already  met  his  ear. 
Tall  and  majestic  was  his  noble  mien, 

Erect,  he  seemed  to  brave  the  foeman's  ire, 
His  step  was  bold,  his  features  all  serene, 

As  he  approached  the  steep  funereal  pyre ! 

Close  at  his  side,  a  figure  glided  slow, 
Clad  in  the  dark  habiliments  of  woe, 
Whose  form  was  shrouded  in  a  mantle's  fold, 
All,  save  one  treacherous  ringlet, —  bright  as  gold. 

The  death-song's  louder  note  shrill  peals  on  high, 
A  signal  that  the  victim  soon  must  die! 
While  yell  and  war-note  join  the  chorus  still, 
Till  the  wild  dirge  rebounds  from  hill  to  hill ! 
Rathmond  now  turned  to  snatch  a  last  sad  gaze, 
Ere  closed  life's  curtain  o'er  his  youthful  days ; 
When  he  beheld  the  dark,  the  piercing  eye 
Of  Montonoc,  the  prophet  doomed  to  die, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  103 

Bent  upon  him  with  such  a  steady  gaze, 

That  not  more  fixed  was  death's  own  horrid  glaze ! 

Then  lifting  his  long  swarthy  finger  high, 

To  where  the  sun's  bright  beams  just  tinged  the  sky 

And  o'er  the  parting  day  its  glories  spread, 

Which  was  to  close  when  their  sad  souls  had  fled, — 

"  White  man,"  he  cried,  in  low  mysterious  tone, 

Caught  but  by  Rathrnond's  listening  ear  alone, 

*'  Ere  the  bright  eye  of  yon  red  orb  shall  sleep, 

This  haughty  chief  his  fallen  tribe  shall  weep!" 

He  said  no  more,  for  lo !  the  death-yells  cease. 

'T  is  hushed!  no  sound  is  echoed  through  the  place 

The  opening  ring  disclosed  a  female  there, 

In  a  rich  mantle  shrouded,  save  her  hair, 

Which  long  and  dark,  luxuriant  round  her  hung, 

With  many  a  clear,  white  pearl  and  dew-drop  strung  . 

She  threw  back  the  mantle  which  shaded  her  face, 
She  spoke  not,  but  looked  the  pale  spirit  of  woe  1 
The  angel  of  mercy  !  the  herald  of  grace ! 

Knelt  the  sorrowful  daughter  of  Hillis-ad-joe ! 
"My  father!  my  father!"  the  maiden  exclaims, 
"  Oh  doom  not  the  white  man  to  die  midst  the  flames 
'T  is  thy  daughter  who  kneels  !  't  is  Chicomico  sues  ! 
Can  my  father,  the  friend  of  my  childhood,  refuse? 
This  heart  is  the  white  man's !  with  him  will  I  die ! 
With  him,  to  the  Great  Spirit's  mansion  I'll  fly! 
The  flames  which  to  heaven  will  waft  his  pure  soul, 
Round  the  form  of  thy  daughter  encircling  shall  roll 
J\hj  life  is  his  life — his  fate  shall  be  mine; 
For  his  image  around  thy  child's  heart  will  entwine  ! 

Man's  breast  may  be  cruel,  and  savage,  and  stern; 
From  the  sufferings  of  others  it  heedless  may  turn ; 
To  the  pleadings  of  want,  to  the  wan  face  of  woe, 
To  the  sorrow-wrung  drops  which  around  it  may  flow 


104  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But 't  will  melt  like  the  snow  on  the  Apennine's  breast, 
As  the  sunbeam  falls  light,  on  its  fancy-crowned  crest, 
When  the  voice  of  a  child  to  its  cold  ear  is  given, 
FUl'd  with  sorrow's  sad  notes  like  the  music  of  Heaven. 

"  Loose  the  white  man,"  the  king  in  an  agony  cried, 

"  My  child,  what  you  plead  for,  can  ne'er  be  denied ! 

The  pris'ner  is  yours !  to  enslave  or  to  free! 

I  yield  him,  Chicomico,  wholly  to  thee ; 

But  remember !"  he  cried,  while  pride  conquered  his 

wo  3, 

"Remember,  thy  father  is  Hillis-ad-joe !" 
He  frowned,  and  his  brow,  like  the  curtains  of  night, 
Looked  darker,  when  tinged  by  a  moon-beam  of  light; 
Chicomico  saw — she  saw,  and  with  dread, 
The  storm,  which  returning,  might  burst  o'er  her  head; 
And  quickly  to  Rathinond  she  turned  with  a  sigh, 
While  a  love-brightened  tear  veiled  her  heavenly  eye. 

"  Go,  white  man,  go  !  without  a  fear  ; 

Remember  you  to  one  are  dear ; 

Go  !  and  may  peace  your  steps  attend  ; 

Chicomico  will  be  your  friend. 

To-morrow  eve,  with  us  may  close 

Joyful,  and  free  from  cares  or  woes ; 

To-morrow  eve  may  also  end, 

And  find  me  here  without  a  friend  ! 

Remember  then  the  Indian  maid, 

Whose  voice  the  burning  brand  hath  stayed ! 

But  should  I  be,  as  now  I  am, 

And  thou  in  prison  and  in  woe, 
Think  that  this  heart  is  still  the  same, 

And  turn  thee  to  Chicomico ! 
Then,  go  !  yes,  go  !  while  yet  you  may, 
Dread  death  awaits  you,  if  you  stay ! 
May  the  Great  Spirit  guard  and  guide 
Your  footsteps  through  the  forest  wide  1" 

9 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  105 

She  said,  and  wrapped  the  mantle  near 
Her  fragile  form,  with  hasty  hand, 

Just  bowed  her  head,  and  shed  one  tear, 
Then  sped  him  to  his  native  land. 

The  wind  is  swift,  and  mountain  hart, 

From  huntsman's  bow,  the  feathered  dart ; 

But  swifter  far  the  pris'ner's  flight, 

When  freed  from  dungeon-chains  and  night  i 

So  Rathmond  felt,  but  wished  to  show 

How  much  he  owed  Chicomico ; 

But  she  had  fled  ;  she  did  not  hear ! 

She  did  not  mark  the  grateful  tear 

Which  quivered  in  the  hero's  eye  ; 

Nor  did  she  catch  the  half-breathed  sigh; 

And  Heaven  alone  could  hear  the  prayer, 

Which  Rathmond's  full  heart  proffered  there. 


PART  III. 

• 

WHILE  swift  on  his  way  young  Rathmond  sped, 
Death's  horrors  awaited  those  he  fled. 
Already  were  the  prisoners  bound, 

One  word,  and  every  torch  would  fly ; 
No  step  was  heard,  nor  feeblest  sound, 

Save  the  death-raven's  wing  on  high ! 
The  sign  was  given,  each  blazing  brand 
Like  lightning,  shot  from  every  hand ; 
The  crackling,  sparkling  fagots  blazed, — 
Then  Montonoc  his  dark  eye  raised ; 
He  whistled  shrill — an  answering  call 
Told  that  each  foernan  then  should  fall! 
Sudden  a  band  of  warriors  flew 
From  earth,  as  if  from  earth  they  grew. 
9 


106  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  brake,  the  fern,  and  hazel-down, 
Blazed  brightly  in  the  sinking  sun ; 
Confusion,  blood,  and  carnage  then 
Spread  their  broad  pinions  o'er  the  glen  ; 
The  blazing  brands  were  quenched  in  blood, 
And  Montonoc  unshackled  stood ! 
He  paused  one  moment — dark  he  frowned, 
By  dire  revenge  and  slaughter  crowned ; 
Then  bent  his  bow,  let  loose  the  dart,- 
And  pierced  the  foeman  Chieftain's  heart. 
Yes,  Montonoc,  thy  arrow  sped, 
For  Hillis-ha-ad-joe  is  dead! 

And  now  within  their  hidden  tent, 
The  conquered  make  their  sad  lament ; 
Before  them  lay  their  slaughtered  king, 
While  slowly  round  they  form  the  ring; 
Dread  e'en  in  death,  the  Chieftain's  form 
Seemed  made  to  stride  the  whirlwind  storm; 
Upon  his  brow  a  dreadful  frown 
Still  lingered  as  the  warrior's  crown;    * 
And  yet  it  seemed  as  mortal  ire 
StiL  sparkled  in  that  eye  of  fire, 
And  blazing,  soon  should  light  the  face 
O'er  which  death's  shadow  held  its  place, 
And  like  the  lightning  'neath  a  cloud, 
Shoot,  flaming  from  its  sable  shroud. 
But,  hark !  low  notes  of  sorrow  break 
The  solemn  calm,  and  o'er  the  lake, 
Float  on  the  bosom  of  the  gale ; 
Hark  !  't  is  the  Chieftain's  funeral  wail ! 

Fallen,  fallen,  fallen  low 
Lies  great  Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 
To  the  land  of  the  dead, 
By  the  white  man  sped! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  107 

In  his  hunting  garb  they  shall  welcome  him  there, 
To  the  land  of  the  bow,  and  the  antlered  deer ! 

Fallen  is  Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 

Chaunt  his  death-dirge  sad  and  slow ; 

In  the  battle  he  fell,  in  the  fight  he  died, 

And  many  a  brave  warrior  sunk  by  his  side. 
In  his  hunting  garb  they  shall  welcome  him  there, 
To  the  land  of  the  bow,  and  the  antlered  deer. 

The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  deep, 

Our  "  mighty  fallen  one"  we  weep  ; 

Fallen  is  Hillis-ha-ad-joe ! 

The  axe  has  laid  our  broad  oak  low  ! 
In  his  hunting  garb  they  shall  welcome  him  there, 
To  the  land  of  the  bow,  and  the  antlered  deer. 

The  last  sad  note  had  sunk  on  the  breeze, 

Which  mournfully  sighed  among  the  dark  trees, 

When  a  form  thickly  shrouded,  swift  glided  along, 

But  joined  not  her  voice  to  the  funeral  song. 

When  the  notes  cease,  she  knelt,  and  in  accents  of  woe, 

Besought  the  Great  Spirit  for  Hillis-ad-joe. 

Her  words  were  but  few,  and  her  manner  was  wild, 

For  she  was  the  slaughtered  Chief's  poor  orphan 

child ! 

She  raised  her  dark  eye  to  the  sun  sinking  red, 
She  looked,  and  that  glance  told  that  reason  had  fled ! 

Why  does  thy  eye  roll  wild,  Chicomico  ? 
Why  dost  thou  shake  like  aspen's  quivering  bough  ? 
Why  o'er  that  fine  brow  streams  thy  raven  hair? 
Read  !  for  the  "  wreck  of  reason  's  written  there  !" 
'T  is  true  !  the  storm  was  high,  the  surges  wild, 
And  reason  fled  the  Chieftain's  orphan  child  ! 
Thou  poor  heart-broken  wretch  on  life's  wild  sea 
Say !  who  is  left  to  love,  to  comfort  thee  1 


108  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

All,  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  left  alone, 
Like  the  last  rose,  by  autumn  rudely  blown. 

But  she  has  fled,  the  wild  and  winged  wind 
Is  by  her  left,  long  loitering  far  behind ! 
But  whither  has  she  fled  ?  to  wild-wood  glen, 
Far  from  the  cares,  the  joys,  the  haunts  of  men ! 
Her  bed  the  rock,  her  drink  the  rippling  stream, 
And  murdered  friends  her  ever  constant  dream  ! 
Her  wild  death-song  is  wafted  on  the  gale, 
Which  echoes  round  the  Chieftain's  funeral  wail ! 
Her  little  skiff  she  paddles  o'er  the  lake, 
And  bids  "  the  Daughter  of  the  Voice,"  awake  ! 
From  hill  to  hill  the  shrieking  echoes  run, 
To  greet  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun. 


PART   IV. 

THE  lake  is  calm,  the  sun  is  low, 
The  whippoorwill  is  chaunting  slow, 
And  scarce  a  leaf  through  the  forest  is  seen 
To  wave  in  the  breeze  its  rich  mantle  of  green. 
Fit  emblem  of  a  guiltless  mind, 

The  glassy  waters  calmly  lie; 
Unruffled  by  a  breath  of  wind, 

Which  o'er  its  shining  breast  may  sigh ! 
The  shadow  of  the  forest  there 

Upon  its  bosom  soft  may  rest; 
The  eagle-heights,  which  tower  in  air, 

May  cast  their  dark  shades  o'er  its  breast 

But  hark  !  approaching  paddles  break 
The  stillness  of  that  azure  lake  ! 
Swift  o'er  its  surface  glides  the  bark, 
Like  lightning's  flash,  like  meteor  spark. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  100 

It  seemed,  as  on  the  light  skiff  flew, 
As  it  scarce  kissed  the  wave's  deep  blue, 
Which,  dimpling  round  the  vessel's  side, 
Sparkled  and  whirled  in  eddies  wide ! 

Who  guides  it  through  the  yielding  lake  ? 
Who  dares  its  magic  calm  to  break  ? 
'Tis  Montonoc!  his  piercing  eye 

Is  raised  to  where  the  western  hill 
Rears  its  broad  forehead  to  the  sky, 

Battling  the  whirlwind's  fury  still. 

'Twas  Montonoc,  and  with  him  there 
Was  that  strange  form,  with  golden  hair! 
Wrapped  in  the  self-same  garb,  as  when 
Surrounded  by  those  savage  men, 
The  stranger  had,  with  Montonoc, 
Been  led  before  the  blazing  stake ! 
Swift,  swift,  the  light  skiff  forward  flew, 
Till  it  had  crossed  the  waters  blue ; 
Both  leaped  like  lightning  to  the  land, 
And  left  the  skiff  upon  the  strand ; 
Far  mid  the  forest  then  they  fled, 
And  mingled  with  its  dark  brown  shade. 

The  oak's  broad  arms  in  the  breeze  were  creaking, 
The  bird  of  the  gloomy  brow  was  shrieking, 
When  a  note  on  the  night-wind  was  wafted  along, 
A  note  of  the  dead  chieftain's  funeral  song. 
A  form  was  seen  wandering  in  frantic  woe, 
*T  was  the  maniac  daughter  of  Hillis-ad-joe  ! 
Her  dark  hair  was  borne  on  the  night-wind  afar, 
And  she  sung  the  wild  dirge  of  the  Blood-hound  of 

War! 

9* 


- 

110  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

She  ceased  when  she  came  near  the  breeze-ruffled 

lake; 
She  ceased — was't  the  wind  sighing  o'er  the  long 

brake  ? 
Wast 't  the  soft  rippling  wave  1  — was 't  the  murmur 

of  trees? 
Which  bending,  were  brushed  by  the  wing  of  the 

breeze  ? 

Ah,  no  !  for  she  shrieked,  as  her  piercing  eye  caught 
A  form  which  her  frenzied  brain  never  forgot ! — 
'T  was  Rathmond !  yes,  Rathmond  before  her  now 

stood, 
And  he  glanced  his  full  eye  on  the  child  of  the  wood. 

"  Chicomico !"  he  cried,  his  voice  sad  and  low, 

"  Chicomico  !"  we  are  the  children  of  woe  ! 

Oh,   come,   then  !   oh,  come !   and   thy  Rathmond's 

strong  arm 

Shall  shelter  thee  ever  from  danger  and  harm ; 
'T  is  true,  I  have  loved  with  the  passion  of  youth  ! 
I  have  loved  ;  and  let  Heaven  attest  with  what  truth ! 
But,  Cordelia,  thy  ashes  are  mixed  with  the  dead — " 
(Here  his  eye  flashed  more  fierce,  and  his  pale  cheek 

turned  red) 

"  'T  was  thy  father,  Chicomico — yes,  't  was  thy  sire, 
Who  kindled  the  loved  saint's  funereal  pyre ! 
But,  't  is  passed" — (and  he  crossed  his  cold,  quivering 

hand 

O'er  a  brow  that  was  burning  like  Zahara's  sand,) 
"  'T  is  pass'd  ! — and  Chicomico,  thou  didst  preserve 
The  life  of  a  wretch,  who  now  never  can  love  ! 
That  life  is  thy  own,  with  a  heart,  that  though  chilled 
To  passion's  soft  throb,  is  with  gratitude  filled !" 
******** 
She  turned  her  dark  eye,  from  which  reason's  bright  fire 
Had  fled,  with  the  ghosts  of  her  friends — of  her  sire ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  Ill 

"  Young  Eagle !"  she  cried,  "  when  my  father  was 

slain, 

What  white  man,  who  ravaged  along  that  dread  plain, 
Withheld  the  dire  blow,  and  plead  for  the  life 
Of  Hillis-ad-joe  ?  —  and  say,  who  in  that  strife, 
Stayed  the  arm  that  bereft  me,  and  left  me  alone  1 
Yes,  Young  Eagle  !  my  father,  my  brothers  are  gone! 
Wouldst  thou  ask  me  to  linger  behind  them,  while  they 
To  yon  Heaven  in  the  west  are  wending  their  way ! 
And,  hark  !  the  Great  Spirit,  whose  voice  sounds  on 

high, 
Bids  me  come !  and  see,  white  man,  how  gladly  I 

fly !" 
More  swift  than  the  deer,  when  the  hounds  are  in 

view, 

To  the  bark  that  was  stranded,  Chicomico  flew ! 
She  dashed  the  light  oar  in  the  waves'  foaming  spray 
And  thus  wildly  she  sung,  as  she  darted  away : 

"  I  go  to  the  land  in  the  west, 
The  Great  Spirit  calls  me  away  ! 

To  the  land  of  the  just  and  the  blest, 
The  Great  Spirit  points  me  the  way! 

"  Like  snow  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
Like  foam  on  the  fountain's  breast, 

Hillis-ad-joe  and  his  kinsmen  have  passed  4 
Like  the  sun's  setting  ray  in  the  west, 

When  it  sinks  on  the  wave  to  rest, 

The  dead  chieftain's  daughter  is  coming  at  last ! 

"  Too  long  has  she  lingered  behind, 
Awaiting  the  Great  Spirit's  voice ! 

But  hark  !  it  calls  loud  in  the  wind, 
And  Chicomico  now  will  rejoice! 

"  I  go  to  the  land  in  the  west : 
The  Great  Spirit  calls  me  away ' 


112  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

To  the  land  of  the  just  and  the  blest, 
The  Great  Spirit  points  me  the  way  1" 

The  wild  notes  sunk  upon  the  gale, 

And  echo  caught  them  not  again ! 
For  the  breeze  which  bore  the  maiden's  wail, 

Wafted  afar  the  last  sad  strain ! 

'T  was  said,  that  shrieking  'mid  the  storm, 

The  maiden  oft  was  seen  to  glide, 
And  oft  the  hunters  mark'd  her  form, 

As  swift  she  darted  through  the  tide. 

And  once  along  the  calm  lake  shore, 
Her  light  canoe  was  she  seen  to  guide, 

But  the  maid  and  her  bark  are  seen  no  more 
To  float  along  the  rippling  tide. 

For  the  billows  foamed,  and  the  winds  did  roar, 
And  her  lamp,  as  it  glimmered  amid  the  storm, 

A  moment  blazed  bright,  and  was  seen  no  more, 
For  it  sunk  'mid  the  waves  with  her  maniac  form  ! 

THE   FAREWELL. 

Adieu,  Chicomico,  adieu; 

Soft  may'st  thou  sleep  amid  the  wave, 
And  'neath  thy  canopy  of  blue 

May  sea-maids  deck  thy  coral  grave, 

'Twas  but  a  feeble  voice  which  sung 
Thy  hapless  tale  of  youthful  woe ; 

But  ah !  that  weak,  that  infant  tongue 
Will  ne'er  another  story  know. 

And  tho'  the  rough  and  foaming  surge, 
And  the  wild  whirlwind  whistling  o'er, 

Should  rudely  chaunt  thy  funeral  dirge, 
And  send  the  notes  from  shore  to  shore ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  113 

Still  shall  one  voice  be  heard,  above 
The  dreadful  "  music  of  the  spheres  !" 

The  voice  of  one  whose  song  is  love, 
Embalm'd  by  sorrow's  saddest  tears. 

PART  V. 

THE  fourth  day  found  the  dark  tribe  brooding  o'er 

Their  chieftain's  body,  chieftain  now  no  more  1 

As  fire  half-quench'd,  some  faint  spark  lives, 

Glimmers,  half  dies,  and  then  revives, 

Revives  to  kindle  far  and  wide, 

And  spread  with  devastating  stride ; 

So  glimmered,  so.  revived,  so  spread 

The  mourners'  rage  around  the  dead  ! 

Their  quivers  o'er  their  shoulders  flung, 

Up  rose  the  aged  and  the  young ; 

And  swore,  as  tenants  of  the  wood, 

By  all  their  hearts  held  dear  or  good, 

That,  ere  another  sun  should  rise, 

Their  slaughtered  foes  should  glut  their  eyes. 

They  swore  revenge  and  bloodshed  too, 

As  their  slain  chieftain's  rightful  due, 

They  swore  that  blood  should  freely  flow 

For  their  poor,  lost  Chicomico  ! 

'T  was  evening :  all  was  fair  and  still ; 
The  orb  of  night  now  sparkling  on  the  rill ; 
Now  glittering  o'er  the  fern,  and  water-brake, 
Cast  its  broad  eye-beam  o'er  the  lake  ! 
Far  through  the  forest,  where  no  footpath  lay, 
Old  Montonoc  pursued  his  onward  way ; 
The  fair-haired  stranger  hung  upon  his  arm, 
Shook  at  each  noise,  and  trembled  with  alarm  ; 
"  Well  do  I  know  the  woodland  way, 
For  I  have  tracked  it  many  a  day, 


114  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

When  mountain  bear  or  wilder  deer 
Have  called  me  to  this  forest  drear. 
Fear'st  thou  with  Montonoc  to  stray, 
Why  wand'rest  thou  so  far  away, 
From  friends,  from  safety,  and  from  home, 
To  war,  and  weariness,  and  gloom  ? 
Thou  must  not  hope,  as  yet,  to  bear 
Free  from  disguise  that  form  so  dear; 
It  must  not,  and  it  will  not  be, 
Till,  buried  in  the  dark  Monee, 
The  last  of  yonder  tribe  of  blood, 
Lies  weltering  in  the  sable  flood! 
But  rest  thee  on  this  fresh  green  seat, 
And  I  will  trace  his  wandering  feet; 
Warn  him  to  watch  the  lurking  foe,' 
Whose  bloody  breasts  for  vengeance  glow  ; 
Then  rest  thee  here ;  within  yon  dell 
I  saw  his  form,  and  knew  him  well !" 

Thus  spoke  the  prophet  of  the  wood, 
As  near  the  stranger  maid  he  stood. 

"  Then  go,"  she  cried,  half-faltering,  "  go  ! 

Bid  him  beware  the  bloody  foe ! 

But  give  me,  ere  we  part,"  she  cried, 

"  Yon  blood-stained  death-blade  from  your  side, 

Perhaps  this  arm,  though  weak,  may  find 

Strength,  in  the  hour  of  deep  distress ; 
Go  !  my  preserver,  and  my  friend, 

May  heaven  thy  steps  and  efforts  bless !" 

Cautious  and  swift  the  Indian  went ; 
His  head  was  raised,  his  bow  was  bent, 
And  as  he  on,  like  wild-deer,  sped, 
So  light,  so  silent,  was  his  tread, 
That  scarce  a  leaf  was  heard  to  move, 
Of  flower  below,  or  branch  above  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  115 

Where  Rathmond,  with  a  heart  of  woe, 

Had  gazed  on  lost  Chicomico, 

There,  on  that  spot,  the  prophet's  eye 

Mark'd  the  young  warrior's  farewell  sigh. 

"  Why  lingerest  thou  here,  Young  Eagle,"  he  cried, 

"  The"  foe  'neath  the  fern,  and  the  dark  hazei  hide ! 

Blood,  blood  !  be  our  war-cry,  for  vengeance  is  theirs ! 

Their  arrows  are  winged  by  despair  and  by  fears ! 

When  the  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad-joe, 

Hath  plunged  him  beneath  the  deep  waters  below, 

Thy  heart  shall  possess  all  it  wishes  for  here, 

Unchilled  by  a  sigh,  unbedewed  by  a  tear ! 

But  till  then,  cold  and  vacant  thy  bosom  shall  be, 

And  the  idol  to  which  thou  hast  bended  thy  knee, 

Shall  mark  thee,  and  love  thee,  in  peril  and  woe, 

Yet  till  then  that  dear  being  thou  never  shalt  know!' 

"  What  meanest  thou,  prophet  of  the  eagle-eye, 
By  thy  mysterious  prophecy? 
Well  knowest  thou  that  yon  bloody  chief 
Doomed  her  to  death,  and  me  to  grief! 
That  round  that  form,  the  wild  flames  rolled 
And  wafted  far  her  angel  soul ! 
Why  didst  thou  not  arrest  the  brand  ? 
For,  prophet,  fate  was  in  thy  hand." 

"  'T  is  well,"  the  Indian  calmly  said, 
"'Tis  well,"  and  bowed  to  earth  his  head; 
•*.  But,"  he  exclaimed,  with  eye  less  grave, 
"  I  left  a  skiff  on  yonder  wave — 
Say,  dark-eyed  Eagle,  dost  thou  know 
Aught  of  the  dire,  blood-thirsty  foe  1" 

"  No,  Montonoc !  no  foe  was  she, 
Who  plunged  adown  the  swift  Monee. 
Chicomico  is  cold  and  damp  ! 
The  wave  her  couch — the  moon  her  lamp ; 


i  16  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  mark !  adown  the  foaming  stream 
The  barks  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam  ! 
What  bode  they?  or  of  weal,  or  woe? 
Do  they  betoken  friend  or  foe? 
Perchance  to  rouse  the  wildwood  deer 
The  Indian  hunters  landed  there." 

Back  they  retraced  their  steps,  till  from  the  hill 
A  female  shriek  rang  loud,  distinct,  and  shrill ! 
Both  start,  both  stop,  and  Montonoc's  dark  eye 
Flashed  like  a  meteor  of  the  northern  sky. — 
But  hark  !  what  cry  of  savage  joy  is  there, 
Borne  through  the  forest  on  the  midnight  air  ? 

It  is  the  foe ! — the  band  of  blood-hounds  came, 

Who  erst  had  lit  the  Chieftain's  funeral  flame ! 

Revenge  and  death  around  their  arrows  gleam, 

And  murder  shudders  'neath  the  moon's  pale  beam ! 

The  fiercest  warrior  of  their  tribe,  their  chief, 

Sage  in  the  council,  bloody  in  the  strife, 

High  towered  dark  Wompaw's  snowy  plume  in  air, 

Waved  on  the  breeze,  and  shone  a  beacon  there ! 

Old  Ompahaw,  with  brow  of  fire, 

And  bosom  burning  high  with  ire 

And  sparkling  eye,  and  burning  brand, 

Which  gleamed  athwart  both  lake  and  strand, 

Still  echoed  back  the  lengthened  yell 

Which  startled  wildwood,  rock,  and  dell ! 

And  more  were  there,  so  dread,  so  wild, 

Nature  might  shudder  at  her  child, 

And  curse  the  hand  that  e'er  had  made 

So  dark  a  stain,  so  deep  a  shade ! 

On,  on  they  flew,  with  lengthened  stride 
But,  ah  !  the  victims,  where  are  they?— 

Naught  but  the  lake  lies  open  wide, 
And  the  broad  bosom  of  the  bay  ' 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  117 

But,  ah !  't  is  well ; — that  shrill  shriek  toll'd 
The  death-knell  of  their  chief  once  more ! 

Yes,  Rathmond,  yes,  the  deed  was  bold, 

That  stretched  yon  white  plume  on  the  shore  ! 

Safe  crouch'd  'neath  fern-bush,  dark  and  low, 

Rathmond  had  truly  bent  his  bow, 

And  Montonoc,  with  steady  eye, 

From  'mid  the  oak's  arms  broad  and  high, 

Took  aim  as  sure ;  his  arrows  sped, 

And  many  a  bloody  loe  is  dead  ! 

Wide  tumult  spreads  !  —  afar  they  fly, 

Each  rustling  brake,  which  meets  the  eye, 

Seems  shrouding  still  some  warrior  there, 

With  bloody  brand  and  eye  of  fire. 

Slow  dropping  from  his  safe  retreat, 

The  prophet  glides  to  Rathmond's  seat ; 

Then  raised  loud  yells  of  various  tone, 

Such  as  are  given  at  victory  won, 

And  Rathmond  joined,  till  long  and  high, 

Rang  the  loud  chorus  to  the  sky ! 

Hark !  o'er  the  rocks,  the  shrieks  are  answered  wild 

Can  it  be  Echo,  Nature's  darling  child  ? 

No  —  'tis  a  whoop  of  horror  and  despair, 

Which  knows  no  sympathy,  which  sheds  no  tear ! 

Lo !  on  yon  cliff,  which  frowns  above  the  wave, 
Mark  the  stern  warriors  hovering  o'er  their  grave ! 
'T  is  done :  the  sullen  bosom  of  the  bay 
Opens  and  closes  o'er  its  sinking  prey  ! 

One  hollow  splashing,  as  the  waters  part, 
Sad  welcome  of  the  victim  to  his  bed, 
One  mournful,  shuddering  echo,  and  the  heart 

Turns,  chilled,  at  length,  from  scenes  of  death  and 
dread  ! 
10 


118  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  ah !  like  some  sad  spectre  lingering  near, 
A  form  still  hovers  o'er  the  scene  of  woe;  — 

Does  it  await  its  hour  of  vengeance  here, 
Watching  the  cold  forms  weltering  below  ? 

The  morn  was  dawning  slowly  in  the  east, 

A  few  faint  gleams  of  light  were  bursting  through 

When  the  dread  warriors  sought  the  lake's  calm 

breast, 
And  sullen  sunk  amid  its  waters  blue! 

That  rude,  wild  phantom  hovering  there, 
Poised  on  the  precipice  mid-way  in  air, 
Like  some  stern  spirit  of  the  dead, 
Rising  indignant  from  its  bed, 
Was  Ompahaw  !  alone,  he  stood, 
Gazing  on  Heaven,  on  hill,  and  wood ! 
His  eye  was  wilder  than  the  eagle's  glare ; 
Its  glance  was  triumph,  mingled  with  despair ! 
Far  floated  on  the  breeze  his  plumes  of  red, 
Waving  in  warlike  pride  around  his  head ; 
His  bow  was  aimless,  bent  within  his  hand ; 
His  scalping-knife  was  gleaming  in  its  band ; 
And  his  gay  dress,  bedecked  for  battle's  storm, 
Was  wildly  fluttering  round  his  warrior-form ! 

"  Farewell !"  he  cried,  "  this  aged  hand 

Draws  the  last  bow-string  of  our  band!" 

He  spoke,  and,  sudden  as  the  lightning's  glance, 

The  dart,  one  moment,  o'er  the  waters  danced ; 

Like  comet's  blaze,  like  shooting  star, 

It  whirled  across  the  waters  far ! 

The  dark  lake  sparkled,  as  the  arrow  fell, 

Foaming,  death's  herald,  a  last,  bright  farewell ! 

Then  from  his  belt  his  tomahawk  he  tore, 

«  Man  shall  ne'er  stain  thy  blade  again  with  gore  1" 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  119 

Then  raised  on  high  his  arm,  and  wildly  sung 
The  death-song  of  his  tribe,  till  nature  rung ! 


THE    DEATH-SONG. 

"  The  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad-joe 

Falls  not  by  the  hand  of  the  bloody  foe 
But  they  fled  to  the  Heaven  of  peace  in  the  west, 
The  Great  Spirit  called,  and  they  flew  to  be  blessed ! 

"  From  the  dark  rock's  frowning  brow 

They  flew  to  the  deep  below ;  • 

They  feared  not,  for  the  Heaven  of  peace  in  the  west 
Was  smiling  them  welcome,  sweet  welcome  to  rest ! 

"  The  last  of  the  tribe  of  Hillis-ad-joe 

Now  plunges  him  'mid  the  deep  waters  below  \ 
I  come,  Great  Spirit,  take  me  to  thy  rest ! 
Lo !  my  freed  soul  is  winged  towards  the  west !" 

'T  is  past !  the  rude,  wild  sons  of  Nature  sleep, 
Calm,  undisturbed,  amid  the  waters  deep ! 
'Tis  past !  —  the  deed  is  done,  the  tribe  has  gone  ! 
Not  one  is  left  to  mourn  it,  no,  not  one ! 

The  last  of  all  that  tribe  of  blood 

Lies  weltering  in  the  sable  flood ! 

Oh  !  where  is  yonder  fair-haired  maid  ? 

Say,  whither  hath  the  lone  one  strayed  1 

'Mid  the  wild  tumult  of  the  strife, 

Where  fled  she  from  the  scalping-knife  ? 

Angels  around  her  spread  their  arm, 

And  shrouded  her  from  fear  and  harm  ! 

But  oh !  what  shriek  rang  shrill  and  clear, 

And  echoed  still  in  Rathmond's  ear  1 

Why  should  he  note  that  voice,  that  scream  ? 

Was  it  his  fancy,  or  a  dream? 


120  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Or  was  it — hope  illumed  his  eye, 
And  pointed  to  the  prophecy ! 

"But  no!  —  't were  madness  to  return 
To  those  bright  scenes  of  joy,"  he  cried, 

"  Her  bones  are  whitening  in  the  sun, 
Her  ashes  scattered  far  and  wide !" 

But  where  is  Montonoc?  alone, 

Rathmond  is  musing  on  the  strand; 
Say,  whither  has  the  prophet  gone  ? 

Why  does  young  Rathmond  heedless  stand  ? 

Oh !  he  is  picturing  to  his  vacant  breast 
Those  scenes  of  joy,  those  moments  doubly  blessed; 
Which  youthful  hope  had  promised  should  be  his, 
When  all  was  light,  and  love,  and  cloudless  bliss  ! 
Oh  !  he  was  signing  o'er  the  dreary  waste, 

Left  in  that  bosom,  which  had  loved  so  well ! 
Oh  !  he  was  wishing  for  some  place  of  rest. 

Some  gloomy  cavern,  or  some  lonely  cell ! 

But,  ah  !  the  voice  of  Montonoc  is  heard, 

Loud  as  the  notes  of  yonder  gloomy  bird 

"  Eagle  !"  he  cried,  "  the  fatal  charm  hath  passed  ! 

The  blood-red  tribe  have  darkly  sunk  at  last  I 

And,  warrior,  now  I  yield  unto  thy  power 

The  latest  trophy  of  my  life's  last  hour ! 

Deal  with  him  as  thou  wilt,  for  he  is  thine ! 

But  mark  !  't  was  I  who  gave,  for  he  was  mine  ! 

Adieu  !  I  go !" — He  closed  his  fiery  eye, 

And  his  stern  spirit  flew  to  heaven  on  high  ! 

The  prisoner  sighed,  and  mutely  gazed  awhile 

Upon  the  fallen  prophet's  brow  of  toil, 

Then  towards  the  warrior  turned,  dropped  the  dark 

hood, 
And,  lo  !  Cordelia  before  Rathmond  stood  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES, 


10* 


UNIVERSITY 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES 


CHARITY. 

A    VERSIFICATION     OF     PART     OF    THE     THIRTEENTH 
CHAPTER    OF    FIRST    CORINTHIANS. 

(Written  in  her  twelfth  year.) 

THOUGH  I  were  gifted  with  an  angel's  tongue, 
And  voice  like  that  with  which  the  prophets  sung, 
Yet  if  mild  charity  were  not  within, 
'T  were  all  an  impious  mockery  and  sin. 

Though  I  the  gift  of  prophecy  possessed. 
And  faith  like  that  which  Abraham  professed, 
They  all  were  like  a  tinkling  cymbal's  sound, 
if  meek-eyed  charity  did  not  abound. 

Though  I  to  feed  the  poor  my  goods  bestow, 
And  to  the  flames  my  body  I  should  throw, 
Yet  the  vain  act  would  never  cover  sin 
If  heaven-born  charity  were  not  within. 


TO   SCIENCE. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Let  others  in  false  Pleasure's  court  be  found, 
But  may  I  ne'er  be  whirled  the  giddy  round  ; 
Let  me  ascend  with  Genius'  rapid  flight, 
Till  the  fair  hill  of  Science  meets  my  sight. 

(123) 


124  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Blest  with  a  pilot  who  my  feet  will  guide, 
Direct  my  way,  whene'er  I  step  aside ; 
May  one  bright  ray  of  Science  on  me  shine. 
And  be  the  gift  of  learning  ever  mine. 


PLEASURE. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Away !  unstable,  fleeting  Pleasure, 
Thou  troublesome  and  gilded  treasure ; 
When  the  false  jewel  changes  hue, 
There 's  naught,  O  man,  that 's  left  for  you ! 
What  many  grasp  at  with  such  joy, 
Is  but  her  shade,  a  foolish  toy; 
She  is  not  found  at  every  court, 
At  every  ball,  and  every  sport, 
But  in  that  heart  she  loves  to  rest, 
That's  with  a  guiltless  conscience  blest. 


THE   GOOD   SHEPHERD. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

The  Shepherd  feeds  his  fleecy  flock  with  care, 
And  mourns  to  find  one  little  lamb  has  strayed ; 

He,  unfatigued,  roams  through  the  midnight  air, 
O'er  hills,  o'er  rocks,  and  through  the  mossy  glade 

But  when  that  lamb  is  found,  what  joy  is  seen 
Depicted  on  the  careful  shepherd's  face, 

When,  sporting  o'er  the  smooth  and  level  green, 
He  sees  his  fav'rite  charge  is  in  its  place. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  125 

Thus  the  great  Shepherd  of  his  flock  doth  mourn, 
When  from  his  fold  a  wayward  lamb  has  strayed, 

And  thus  with  mercy  he  receives  him  home, 
When  the  poor  soul  his  Lord  has  disobeyed. 

There  is  great  joy  among  the  saints  in  heaven, 
When  one  repentant  soul  has  found  its  God, 

For  Christ,  his  Shepherd,  hath  his  ransom  given, 
And  sealed  it  with  his  own  redeeming  blood  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN    UNDER    THE    PROMISE    OF    REWARD. 
(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Whene'er  the  muse  pleases  to  grace  my  dull  page, 
At  the  sight  of  reward,  she  flies  off  in  a  rage ; 
Prayers,  threats,  and  entreaties  I  frequently  try, 
But  she  leaves  me  to  scribble,  to  fret,  and  to  sigh. 

She  torments  me  each  moment,  and  bids  me  go  write, 
And  when  I  obey  her,  she  laughs  at  the  sight ; 
The  rhyme  will  not  jingle,  the  verse  has  no  sense, 
And  against  all  her  insults  I  have  no  defence. 

I  advise  all  my  friends,  who  wish  me  to  write, 
To  keep  their  rewards  and  their  praises  from  sight ; 
So  that  jealous  Miss  Muse  won't  be  wounded  in  pride, 
Nor  Pegasus  rear,  till  I  've  taken  my  ride. 


126  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

TO    THE 

MEMORY  OF  HENRY   KIRK  WHITE. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

In  yon  lone  valley  where  the  cypress  spreads 
Its  gloomy,  dark,  impenetrable  shades, 
The  mourning  Nine,  o'er  White's  untimely  grave 
Murmur  their  sighs,  like  Neptune's  troubled  wave. 

There  sits  Consumption,  sickly,  pale,  and  thin, 
Her  joy  evincing  by  a  ghastly  grin  ; 
There  his  deserted  garlands  with'ring  lie, 
Like  him  they  droop,  like  him  untimely  die. 


STILLING  THE  WAVES. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

"  And  he  arose  and  rebuked  the  wind,  and  said  unto  the  sea 
•Peace,  be  still!'" 

Be  still,  ye  waves,  for  Christ  doth  deign  to  tread 
On  the  rough  bosom  of  your  watery  bed  ! 
Be  not  too  harsh  your  gracious  Lord  to  greet, 
But,  in  soft  murmurs,  kiss  his  holy  feet; 
'T  is  He  alone  can  calm  your  rage  at  will, 
This  is  His  sacred  mandate,  "  Peace,  be  still  I" 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  127 

A   SONG. 

(IN    IMITATION    OF    THE    SCOTCH.) 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Wha  is  it  that  caemeth  sae  blithe  and  sae  swift, 

His  bonnet  is  far  frae  his  flaxen  hair  lift, 

His  dark  een  rolls  gladsome,  i'  the  breeze  floats  his 

plaid, 

And  surely  he  bringeth  nae  news  that  is  sad. 
Ah  !  say,  bonny  stranger,  whence  caemest  thou  now? 
The  tiny  drop  trickles  frae  off  thy  dark  brow. 

"  I  come,"  said  the  stranger,  "  to  spier  my  lued  hame, 
And  to  see  if  my  Marion  still  were  the  same ; 
I  hae  been  to  the  battle,  where  thousands  hae  bled, 
And  chieftains  fu'  proud  are  wi'  mean  peasants  laid; 
I  hae  fought  for  my  country,  for  freedom,  and  fame, 
And  now  I'm  returning  wi'  speed  to  my  hame." 

"  Gude  Spirit  of  Light !"  ('t  was  a  voice  caught  his 

ear) 

"  And  is  it  me  ain  Norman's  accents  I  hear? 
And  has  the  fierce  Southron  then  left  me  my  child  1 
Or  am  I  wi'  sair,  sair  anxiety  wild  ?" 
He  turned  to  behold — 'tis  his  mother  he  sees! 
He  flies  to  embrace  her — he  falls  on  his  knees. 

"  Oh  !  where  is  my  father  ?"  a  tear  trickled  down, 
And  silently  moisten'd  the  warrior's  cheek  brown : 
"  Ah !  sure  my  heart  sinks,  sae  sair  in  my  breast, 
Too  sure  he  frae  all  the  world's  trouble  doth  rest !" 
"  But  where  is  my  Marion ?"-his  pale  cheek  turned 

red, 
And  the  glistening  tear  in  his  eye  was  soon  dried. 


128  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

"  She  lives  !"  and  he  knew  't  was  his  Marion's  sweet 

tone, 

"  She  lives,"  exclaims  Marion,  "  for  Norman  alone  I" 
He  saw  her :  the  rose  had  fled  far  from  her  cheek, 
But  Norman  still  lives  !  his  Marion  is  found ; 
By  the   adamant   chains   of  blithe  Hymen  they're 

bound. 


EXIT  FROM  EGYPTIAN  BONDAGE. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

When  Israel's  sons,  from  cruel  bondage  freed, 
Fled  to  the  land  by  righteous  Heaven  decreed ; 
Insulting  Pharaoh  quick  pursued  their  train, 
E'en  to  the  borders  of  the  troubled  main. 

Affrighted  Israel  stood  alone  dismayed, 
The  foe  behind,  the  sea  before  them  laid ; 
Around,  the  hosts  of  bloody  Pharaoh  fold, 
And  wave  o'er  wave  the  raging  Red  Sea  rolled. 

But  God,  who  saves  his  chosen  ones  from  harm, 
Stretched  to  their  aid  his  all-protecting  arm, 
And  lo  !  on  either  side  the  sea  divides, 
And  Israel's  army  in  its  bosom  hides. 

Safe  to  the  shore  through  watery  walls  they  march, 
And  once  more  hail  kind  Heaven's  aerial  arch ; 
Far,  far  behind,  the  cruel  foe  is  seen, 
And  the  dark  waters  roll  their  march  between. 

The  God  of  vengeance  stretched  his  arm  again, 
And  heaving,  back  recoiled  the  foaming  main ; 
And  impious  Pharaoh  'neath  the  raging  wave, 
With  all  his  army,  finds  a  watery  grave. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  129 

Rejoice,  O  Israel !  God  is  on  your  side, 
He  is  your  champion,  and  your  faithful  guide ; 
By  day,  a  cloud  is  to  your  footsteps  given, 
By  night,  a  fiery  column  towers  to  heaven. 

Then  Israel's  children  marched  by  day  and  night, 
Till  Sinai's  mountain  rose  upon  their  sight : 
There  righteous  Heaven  the  flying  army  staid, 
And  Israel's  sons  the  high  command  obeyed. 

To  Sinai's  mount  the  trembling  people  came, 

>T  was  wrapped  in  threat'ning  clouds,  in  smoke,  and 

flame; 

A  'silent  awe  pervaded  all  the  van ; 
Not  e'en  a  murmur  through  the  army  ran. 
High  Sinai  shook  !  dread  thunders  rent  the  air ! 
And  horrid  lightnings  round  its  summit  glare ! 
'T  was  God's  pavilion,  and  the  black'ning  clouds, 
Dark  hov'ring  o'er,  his  dazzling  glory  shrouds. 

To  Heaven's  dread  court  the  intrepid  leader  came, 
T'  receive  its  mandate  in  the  people's  name ; 
Loud  trumpets  peal — the  awful  thunders  roll, 
Transfixing  terrors  in  each  guilty  soul. 

But  lo !  he  comes,  arrayed  in  shining  light, 
And  round  his  forehead  plays  a  halo  bright : 
Heaven's  high   commands  with  trembling  were  re 
ceived, 

Heaven's  high  commands  were  heard,  and  were  be 
lieved. 


THE  LAST  FLOWER  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

The  last  flower  of  the  garden  was  blooming  alone, 
The  last  rays  of  the  sun  on  its  blushing  leaves  shone; 
11 


cr  TH*,      ^ 

[UNIVERSITY; 


130  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Still  a  glittering  drop  on  its  bosom  reclined, 
And  a  few  half-blown  buds  'midst  its  leaves  were  en 
twined. 

Say,  lonely  one,  say,  why  ling'rest  thou  here  ? 
And  why  on  thy  bosom  reclines  the  bright  tear? 
'T  is  the  tear  of  a  zephyr — for  summer  't  was  shed, 
And  for  all  thy  companions  now  withered  and  dead. 

Why  ling'rest  thou  here,  when  around  thee  are  strown 
The  flowers  once  so  lovely,  by  Autumn  blast  blown  ? 
Say,  why,  sweetest  flow'ret,  the  last  of  thy  race, 
Why  ling'rest  thou  here  the  lone  garden  to  grace? 

As  I  spoke,  a  rough  blast,  sent  by  Winter's  own  hand, 
Whistled  by  me,  and  bent  its  sweet  head  to  the  sand ; 
I  hastened  to  raise  it — the  dew-drop  had  fled, 
And  the  once  lovely  flower  was  withered  and  dead. 


ODE   TO  FANCY. 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Fancy,  sweet  and  truant  sprite, 
Steals  on  wings,  as  feathers  light, 
Draws  a  veil  o'er  Reason's  eye, 
And  bids  the  guardian  senses  fly. 

Soft  she  whispers  to  the  mind, 
Come,  and  trouble  leave  behind : 
She  banishes  the  fiend  Despair, 
And  shuts  the  eyes  of  waking  Care. 

Then,  o'er  precipices  dark, 
Where  never  reached  the  wing  of  lark, 
Fearing  no  harm,  she  dauntless  flies, 
Where  rocks  on  rocks  dread  frowning  rise. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  12 

When  Autumn  shakes  his  hoary  head, 
And  scatters  leaves  at  every  tread ; 
Fancy  stands  with  list'ning  ear, 
Nor  starts,  when  shrieks  affrighted  Fear. 

There's  music  in  the  rattling  leaf, 
But  't  is  not  for  the  ear  of  Grief; 
There 's  music  in  the  wind's  hoarse  moan, 
But  'tis  for  Fancy's  ear  alone. 


THE  BLUSH. 

(Writtten  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Why  that  blush  on  Ella's  cheek, 
What  doth  the  flitting  wand'rer  seek  ? 
Doth  passion's  black'ning  tempest  scowl, 
To  agitate  my  Ella's  soul  ? 

Return,  sweet  wand'rer,  fear  no  harm ; 
The  heart  which  Ella's  breast  doth  warm, 
Is  virtue's  calm,  serene  retreat; 
And  ne'er  with  passion's  storm  did  beat. 

Return,  and  calmly  rest,  till  love 
Shall  thy  sweet  efficacy  prove; 
Then  come,  and  thy  loved  place  resume, 
And  fill  that  cheek  with  youthful  bloom. 

A  blush  of  nature  charms  the  heart 
More  than  the  brilliant  tints  of  art ; 
They  please  awhile,  and  please  no  more — 
We  hate  the  things  we  loved  before. 

But  no  unfading  tints  were  those, 
Which  to  my  Ella's  cheek  arose ; 


132  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

They  please  the  raptured  heart,  and  fly 
Before  they  pall  the  gazing  eye. 

'T  was  not  the  blush  of  guilt  or  shame, 
Which  o'er  my  Ella's  features  came ; 
'T  was  she,  who  fed  the  poor  distressed, 
'T  was  she  the  indigent  had  blessed ; 

For  her  their  prayers  to  heaven  were  raised, 
On  her  the  grateful  people  gazed ; 
'T  was  then  the  blush  suffused  her  cheek, 
Which  told  what  words  can  never  speak. 


ON    AN   ^OLIAN    HARP. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

What  heavenly  music  strikes  my  ravished  ear, 
So  soft,  so  melancholy,  and  so  clear  ? 
And  do  the  tuneful  Nine  then  touch  the  lyre, 
To  fill  each  bosom  with  poetic  fire  ? 

Or  does  some  angel  strike  the  sounding  strings, 
Catching  from  echo  the  wild  note  he  sings  ? 
But  hark !  another  strain,  how  sweet,  how  wild 
Now  rising  high,  now  sinking  low  and  mild. 

And  tell  me  now,  ye  spirits  of  the  wind, 
Oh,  tell  me  where  those  artless  notes  to  find ! 
So  lofty  now,  so  loud,  so  sweet,  so  clear, 
That  even  angels  might  delighted  hear ! 

But  hark !  those  notes  again  majestic  rise, 
As  though  some  spirit,  banished  from  the  skies, 
Had  hither  fled  to  charm  Molus  wild, 
And  teach  him  other  music  sweet  and  mild. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


Then  hither  fly,  sweet  mourner  of  the  air, 
Then  hither  fly,  and  to  my  harp  repair; 
At  twilight  chaunt  the  melancholy  lay, 
And  charm  the  sorrows  of  thy  soul  away. 


THE   COQUETTE. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

I  hae  nae  sleep,  I  hae  nae  rest, 

My  Ellen  's  lost  for  aye, 
My  heart  is  sair  and  much  distressed, 

I  surely  soon  must  die. 

I  canna  think  o'  wark  at  a', 

My  eyes  still  wander  far, 
I  see  her  neck  like  driven  snaw, 

I  see  her  flaxen  hair. 

Sair,  sair,  I  begged;  she  would  na'  hear, 

She  proudly  turned  awa', 
Unmoved  she  saw  the  trickling  tear, 

Which,  spite  o'  me,  would  fa'. 

She  acted  weel  a  conqueror's  part, 

She  triumphed  in  my  woe, 
She  gracefu'  waved  me  to  depart, 

I  tried,  but  could  na'  go. 

"Ah  why,"  (distractedly  I  cried,) 

"Why  yield  me  to  despair? 
Bid  ling'ring  Hope  resume  her  sway, 

To  ease  my  heart  sae  sair." 

11* 


134  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

She  scornfu'  smiled,  and  bade  me  go! 

This  roused  my  dormant  pride; 
I  craved  nae  boon  —  I  took  nae  luke, 

"  Adieu !"  I  proudly  cried. 

I  fled !  nor  Ellen  hae  I  seen, 

Sin'  that  too  fatal  day: 
My  "bosom's  laird"  sits  heavy  here, 

And  Hope's  fled  far  away. 

Care,  darkly  brooding,  bodes  a  storm, 
I'm  Sorrow's  child  indeed; 

She  stamps  her  image  on  my  form, 
I  wear  the  mourning  weed! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Sweet  child,  and  hast  thou  gone,  for  ever  fled  ! 
Low  lies  thy  body  in  its  grassy  bed  ; 
But  thy  freed  soul  swift  bends  its  flight  through  air 
Thy  heavenly  Father's  gracious  love  to  share. 

And  now,  methinks,  I  see  thee  clothed  in  white, 
Mingling  with  saints,  like  thee,  celestial  bright. — 
Look  down,  sweet  angel,  on  thy  friends  below, 
And  mark  their  trickling  tears  of  silent  woe. 

Look  down  with  pity  in  thy  infant  eye, 

And  view  the  friends  thou  left,  for  friends  on  high: 

Methinks  I  see  thee  leaning  from  above, 

To  whisper,  to  those  friends,  of  peace  and  love. 

"  Weep  not  for  me,  for  I  am  happy  still, 
And  murmur  not  at  our  great -Father's  will; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  135 

Let  not  this  blow  your  trust  in  Jesus  shake, 
Our  Saviour  gave,  and  it  is  his  to  take. 

"  Once  you  looked  forward  to  life's  opening  day, 
The  scene  was  bright,  and  pleasant  seemed  the  way; 
Hope  drew  the  picture,  Fancy,  ever  near, 
Coloured  it  bright  —  'tis  blotted  with  a  tear. 

"  Then  let  that  tear  be  Resignation's  child  ; 
Yielding  to  Heaven's  high  will,  be  calm,  be  mild; 
Weep  for  your  child  no  more,  she  's  happy  still, 
And  murmur  not  at  your  great  Father's  will." 


REFLECTIONS, 

ON  CROSSING  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN  IN  THE   STEAMBOAT  PHCENIX. 
(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Islet*  on  the  lake's  calm  bosom, 

In  thy  breast  rich  treasures  lie ; 
Heroes!  there  your  bones  shall  moulder, 

But  your  fame  shall  never  die. 

Islet  on  the  lake's  calm  bosom, 

Sleep  serenely  in  thy  bed ; 
Brightest  gem  our  waves  can  boast, 

Guardian  angel  of  the  dead ! 

Calm  upon  the  waves  recline, 

Till  great  Nature's  reign  is  o'er; 
Until  old  and  swift-winged  time 

Sinks,  and  order  is  no  more. 

*  Crab  Island  ;  on  which  were  buried  the  remains  of  the  sailors 
who  fell  in  the  action  of  September  llth,  1814. 


-,0  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Then  thy  guardianship  shall  cease, 
Then 'shall  rock  thy  aged  bed; 

And  when  Heaven's  last  trump  shall  sound, 
Thou  shalt  yield  thy  noble  dead ! 


THE   STAR  OF  LIBERTY. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

There  shone  a  getn  on  England's  crown, 
Bright  as  yon  star; 
Oppression  marked  it  with  a  frown, 
He  sent  his  darkest  spirit  down, 
To  quench  the  light  that  round  it  shone, 

Blazing  afar. 

But  Independence  met  the  foe, 
And  laid  the  swift-winged  demon  low. 

A  second  messenger  was  sent, 

Dark  as  the  night ; 
On  his  dire  errand  swift  he  went, 
But  Valour's  bow  was  truly  bent, 
Justice  her  keenest  arrow  lent, 

And  sped  its  flight ; 

Then  fell  the  impious  wretch,  and  Death 
Approached,  to  take  his  withering  breath. 

Valour  then  took,  with  hasty  hand, 

The  gem  of  light; 
He  flew  to  seek  some  other  land, 
He  flew  to  'scape  oppression's  hand, 
He  knew  there  was  some  other  strand. 

More  bright; 

And  as  he  swept  the  fields  of  air, 
He  found  a  country,  rich  and  fair. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  137 

Upon  its  breast  the  star  he  placed, 

The  star  of  liberty ; 

Bright,  and  more  bright  the  meteor  blazed, 

The  lesser  planets  stood  amazed, 

Astonished  mortals,  wondering,  gazed, 

Looking  on  fearfully. 

That  star  shines  brightly  to  this  day, 

On  thy  calm  breast,  America  ! 


THE    MERMAID. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Maid  of  the  briny  wave  and  raven  lock, 

Whose  bed's  the  sea-weed,  and  whose  throne's  the 

rock, 

Tell  me,  what  fate  compels  thee  thus  to  ride 
O'er  the  tempestuous  ocean's  foaming  tide  ? 

Art  thou  some  naiad,  who,  at  Neptune's  nod, 
Flies  to  obey  the  mandate  of  that  god  ? 
Art  thou  the  syren,  who,  when  night  draws  on, 
Chauntest  thy  farewell  to  the  setting  sun  ? 

Or,  leaning  on  thy  wave-encircled  rock, 
Twining  with  lily  hand  thy  raven  lock ; 
Dost  thou,  in  accents  wild,  proclaim  the  storm, 
Which  soon  shall  wrap  th'  unwary  sailor's  form  s 

Or  dost  thou  round  the  wild  Charybdis  play, 
To  warn  the  seaman  from  his  dangerous  way  ? 
Or,  shrieking  midst  the  tempest,  chaunt  the  dirge 
Of  shipwrecked  sailors,  buried  in  the  surge  ? 

Tell  me,  mysterious  being,  what  you  are  ? 
So  wild,  so  strange,  so  lonely,  yet  so  fair ! 


138  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Tell  me,  O  tell  me,  why  you  sit  alone, 
Singing  so  sweetly  on  the  wave-washed  stone  ? 

And  tell  me,  that  if  e'er  I  find  my  grave, 
Beneath  the  ocean's  wildly  troubled  wave, 
That  thou  with  weeds  wilt  strew  my  watery  bed, 
And  hush  the  roaring  billows  o'er  my  head. 


ON    SOLITUDE. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Sweet  Solitude  !  I  love  thy  silent  shade, 
I  love  to  pause  when  in^ife's  mad  career : 

To  view  the  chequered  path  before  me  laid, 
And  turn  to  meditate — to  hope,  to  fear. 

'T  is  sweet  to  draw  the  curtain  on  the  world, 
To  shut  out  all  its  tumult,  all  its  care; 

Leave  the  dread  vortex,  in  which  all  are  whirled, 
And  to  thy  shades  of  twilight  calm  repair. 

Yet,  Solitude,  the  hand  divine,  which  made 
The  earth,  the  ocean,  and  the  realms  of  air, 

Pointed  how  far  thy  kingdom  should  extend, 
And  bade  thee  pause,  for  he  had  fixed  thee  there 

Then,  when  disgusted  with  the  world  and  man, 
When  sick  of  pageantry,  of  pomp,  and  pride, 

To  thee  I  Jll  fly,  in  thee  I  '11  seek  relief, 

And  hope  to  find  that  calm  the  world  denied. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  139 

ON   THE   BIRTH  OF  A   SISTER. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Sweet  babe,  I  cannot  hope  thou  wilt  be  freed 
From  woes,  to  all,  since  earliest  time,  decreed ; 
But  mayest  thou.be  with  resignation  blessed, 
To  bear  each  evil,  howsoe'er  distressed. 

May  Hope  her  anchor  lend  amid  the  storm, 
And  o'er  the  tempest  rear  her  angel  form ! 
May  sweet  Benevolence,  whose  words  are  peace. 
To  the  rude  whirlwinds  softly  whisper  "  cease !" 

And  may  Religion,  Heaven's  own  darling  child, 
Teach  thee  at  human  cares  and  griefs  to  smile ; 
Teach  thee  to  look  beyond  this  world  of  woe, 
To  Heaven's  high  fount,  whence  mercies  ever  flow 

And  when  this  vale  of  tears  is  safely  passed, 
When  Death's  dark  curtain  shuts  the  scene  at  last, 
May  thy  freed  spirit  leave  this  earthly  sod, 
And  fly  to  seek  the  bosom  of  thy  God. 


A   DREAM. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Methought,  (unwitting  how  the  place  I  gained,) 
I  rested  on  a  fleecy,  floating  cloud 
Far  o'er  the  earth,  the  stars,  the  sun,  the  heavens, 
And  slowly  wheeled  around  the  dread  expanse ! 
Sudden,  rnethought,  a  trumpet's  voice  was  heard, 
Pealing  with  long,  loud,  death-awakening  note, 


140  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Such  note  as  mortal  man  but  once  may  hear ! 

At  that  heart-piercing  summons,  there  arose 

A  crowd  fast  pouring  from  the  troubled  earth ! 

The  earth,  that  blackened  speck  alone  seemed  moved 

By  the  dread  note,  which  rushed, 

Like    pent-up    whirlwinds,    round   Heaven's    azure 

vault ; 

All  other  worlds,  all  other  twinkling  stars 
Stood  mute — stood  motionless; 
Their  time  had  not  yet  come. 
Yet,  ever  and  anon,  they  seemed  to  bow 
Before  the  dread  tribunal; 
And  the  fiery  comet,  as  it  blazed  along, 
Stopped  in  its  midway  course,  as  conscious  of  the 

power 

Which  onward  ever,  ever  had  impelled : 
No  other  planet  moved,  none  seemed  convulsed, 
Save  the  dim  orb  of  earth ! 

Forth  eddying  rushed  a  crowd,  confused  and  dark, 
Like  a  volcano,  muttering  and  subdued ! 
There  came  no  sound  distinct,  but  sighs  and  groans 
And  murmurings  half  suppressed,  half  uttered ! 
All  eyes  were  upward  turned  in  wonder  and  in  fear, 
But  soon,  methought,  they  onward  rolled 
To  the  dread  High  One's  bar, 
As  the  tumultuous  billows   rush   murmuring  to  the 

shore, 

And  all  distinctions  dwindled  into  naught. 
Upward  I  cast  my  eyes; 
High  on  an  azure  throne,  begirt  with  clouds, 
Sate  the  dread  Indescribable ! 
He  raised  his  sceptre,  waved  it  o'er  the  crowd, 
And  all  was  calm  and  silent  as  the  grave ! 
He  rose ;  the  cherubs  flapped  their  snowy  wings  ! 
On  came  the  rushing  wind — the  throne  was  moved, 
And  flew  like  gliding  swan  above  the  crowd ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  141 

Sudden  it  stopped  o'er  the  devoted  world ! 

The  Judge  moved  forward  'mid  his  sable  shroud, 

Raised  his  strong  arm  with  rolling  thunders  clothed, 

Held  forth  a  vial  filled  with  wrathful  fire, 

Then  poured  the  contents  on  the  waiting  globe  ! 

Sudden  the  chain,  which  bound  it  to  God's  throne, 

Snapped  with  a  dire  explosion! 

On  wheeled  the  desolate — the  burning  orb 

Swift  through  the  heavens ! 

Down,  down  it  plunged  —  then  shot  across  the  ex 
panse, 

Blazing  through  realms,  where  light  had  never 
pierced  ! 

Down,  down  it  plunged — fast  wheeling  from  above, 

Shooting  forth  flames,  and  sparks,  and  burning  brands, 

Trailing  from  shade  to  shade  ! 

Then  bounding,  blazing  —  brighter  than  before, 

It  plunged  extinguished  in  the  chaotic  gulf! 


TO    MY    SISTER. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.*) 

When  evening  spreads  her  shades  around, 
And  darkness  fills  the  arch  of  heaven ; 

When  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound 
To  Fancy's  sportive  ear  is  given; 

When  the  broad  orb  of  heaven  is  bright, 
And  looks  around  with  golden  eye ; 

When  Nature,  softened  by  her  light, 
Seems  calmly,  solemnly  to  lie; 

*  See  Biographical  Sketch. 
12 


142  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Then,  when  our  thoughts  are  raised  above 
This  world,  and  all  this  world  can  give ; 

Oh,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love, 
And  tears  of  gratitude  receive. 

The  song  which  thrills  my  bosom's  core, 
And  hovering,  trembles,  half  afraid ; 

O  sister,  sing  the  song  once  more 

Which  ne'er  for  mortal  ear  was  made. 

'T  were  almost  sacrilege  to  sing 
Those  notes  amid  the  glare  of  day ; 

Notes  borne  by  angels'  purest  wing, 
And  wafted  by  their  breath  away. 

When  sleeping  in  my  grass-grown  bed, 
Should'st  thou  still  linger  here  above, 

Wilt  thou  not  kneel  beside  my  head, 
And,  sister,  sing  the  song  I  love  ? 


CUPID'S   BOWER. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Am  I  in  fairy  land  ?  or  tell  me,  pray, 
To  what  love-lighted  bower  I  've  found  my  way  ? 
Sure  luckless  wight  was  never  more  beguiled 
In  woodland  maze,  or  closely-tangled  wild. 

And  is  this  Cupid's  realm  1  if  so,  good  bye ! 
Cupid,  and  Cupid's  votaries,  I  fly ; 
No  offering  to  his  altar  do  I  bring, 
No  bleeding  heart — or  hymeneal  ring, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  143 

What  though  he  proudly  marshals  his  array 
Of  conquered  hearts,  still  bleeding  in  his  way ; 
Of  sighs,  of  kisses  sweet,  of  glances  sly, 
Playing  around  some  darkly-beauteous  eye  1 

What  though  the  rose  of  beauty  opening  wide, 
Blooms  but  for  him,  and  fans  his  lordly  pride  ? 
What  though  his  garden  boasts  the  fairest  flower 
That  ever  dew-drop  kissed,  or  pearly  shower ; 

Still,  Cupid,  I  'm  no  votary  to  thee ; 
Thy  torch  of  light  will  never  blaze  for  me ; 
I  ask  no  glance  of  thine,  I  ask  no  sigh ; 
I  brave  thy  fury,  and  thus  boldly  fly  ! 

Adieu,  then,  and  for  evermore,  adieu ! 
Ye  poor  entangled  ones,  farewell  to  you ! 
And,  O  ye  powers  !  a  hapless  mortal  prays 
For  guidance  through  this  labyrinthine  maze. 


THE   FAMILY   TIME-PIECE. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Friend  of  my  heart,  thou  monitor  of  youth, 
Well  do  I  love  thee,  dearest  child  of  truth ; 
Though  many  a  lonely  hour  thy  whisperings  low 
Have  made  sad  chorus  to  the  notes  of  woe. 

Or  'mid  the  happy  hour  which  joyful  flew, 
Thou  still  wert  faithful,  still  unchanged,  still  true ; 
Or  when  the  task  employed  my  infant  mind, 
Oft  have  I  sighed  to  see  thee  lag  behind ; 


144  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

And  watched  thy  finger,  with  a  youthful  glee, 
When  it  had  pointed  silently,  "  be  free  :" 
Thou  wert  my  mentor  through  each  passing  year  ; 
'Mid  pain  or  pleasure,  thou  wert  ever  near. 

And  when  the  wings  of  time  unnoticed  flew, 
I  paused,  reflected,  wondered,  turned  to  you ; 
Paused  in  my  heedless  round,  to  mark  thy  hand, 
Pointing  to  conscience,  like  a  magic  wand ; 

To  watch  thee  stealing  on  thy  silent  way, 
Silent,  but  sure,  Time's  pinions  cannot  stay ; 
How  many  hours  of  pleasure,  hours  of  pain, 
When  smiles  were  bright'ning  round  affliction's  train? 

How  many  hours  of  poverty  and  woe, 
Which  taught  cold  drops  of  agony  to  flow? 
How  many  hours  of  war,*  of  blood,  of  death, 
Which  added  laurels  to  the  victor's  wreath  ? 

How  many  deep-drawn  sighs  thy  hand  hath  told, 
And  dimmed  the  smile,  and  dried  the  tear  which 

rolled  ? 

When  the  loud  cannon  spoke  the  voice  of  war, 
And  death  and  bloodshed  whirled  their  crimson  car? 

When  the  proud  banner,  waving  in  the  breeze, 
Had  welcomed  war,  and  bade  adieu  to  peace, 
Thy  faithful  finger  traced  the  wing  of  time, 
Pointed  to  earth,  and  then  to  heaven  sublime. 

Unmoved  amid  the  carnage  of  the  world, 
When  thousands  to  eternity  were  hurled, 
Thy  head  was  reared  aloft,  truth's  chosen  child, 
Beaming  serenely  through  the  troubled  wild. 

*  Alluding,  probably,  to  the  late  war  scenes  at  Pittsburgh.— 
EDITOR. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  145 


Friend  of  my  youth,  ere  from  its  mould'ring  clay 
My  joyful  spirit  wings  to  heaven  its  way ; 
O  may'st  thou  watch  beside  my  aching  head, 
And  tell  how  fast  time  flits  with  feathered  tread. 


ON   THE 
EXECUTION  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Touch  not  the  heart,  for  Sorrow's  voice 

Will  mingle  in  the  chorus  wild; 
When  Scotland  weeps,  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

No:  rather  mourn  her  murdered  child. 

Sing  how  on  Carberry's  mount  of  blood, 

'Mid  foes  exulting  in  her  doom, 
The  captive  Mary  fearless  stood, 

A  helpless  victim  for  the  tomb. 

Justice  and  Mercy,  'frighted,  fled, 

And  shrouded  was  Hope's  beacon  blaze, 

When,  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
Poor  Mary  met  her  murderers'  gaze. 

Calm  was  her  eye  as  yon  dark  lake, 
And  changed  her  once  angelic  form; 

No  sigh  was  heard  the  pause  to  break, 
That  awful  pause  before  the  storm. 

O  draw  the  veil,  't  were  shame  to  gaze 

Upon  the  bloody  tragedy; 
But  lo !  a  brilliant  halo  plays 

Around  the  hill  of  Carberry. 
12* 


146  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

'Tis  done  —  and  Mary's  soul  has  flown 
Beyond  this  scene  of  blood  and  death; 

'Tis  done — the  lovely  saint  has  gone 
To  claim  in  heaven  a  thornless  wreath. 

But  as  Elijah,  when  his  car 

Wheeled  on  towards  heaven  its  path  of  light, 
Dropped  on  his  friend,  he  left  afar, 

His  mantle,  like  a  meteor  bright; 

So  Mary,  when  her  spirit  flew 

Far  from  this  world,  so  sad,  so  weary, 

A  crown  of  fame  immortal  threw 
Around  the  brow  of  Carberry. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OP 

SODOM    AND   GOMORRAH. 

"  And  he  looked  towards  Sodom  and  Gomorrah,  and  lo !  the 
smoke  of  the  country  went  up  as  the  smoke  of  a  furnace." 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

O  dread  was  the  night,  when  o'er  Sodom's  wid',  plain 

The  fire  of  heaven  descended ; 
For  all  that  then  bloomed,  shall  ne'er  blcor^*  thore 
again, 

For  man  hath  his  Maker  offended. 

The  midnight  of  terror  and  woe  hath  passed  by, 

The  death-spirit's  pinions  are  furled ; 
But  the  sun,  as  it  beams  clear  and  brilliant  on  hig! 

Hides  from  Sodom's  dark,  desolate  world. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  147 

Here  lies  but  that  glassy,  that  death-stricken  lake, 
As  in  mockery  of  what  had  been  there  ; 

The  wild  bird  flies  far  from  the  dark  nestling  brake, 
Which  waves  its  scorched  arms  in  the  air. 


In  that  city  the  wine-cup  was  brilliantly  flowing, 

Joy  held  her  high  festival  there; 
Not  a  fond  bosom  dreaming,  (in  luxury  glowing,) 

Of  the  close  of  that  night  of  despair. 

For   the   bride,  her   handmaiden   the   garland  was 
wreathing, 

At  the  altar  the  bridegroom  was  waiting, 
But  vengeance  impatiently  round  them  was  breathing, 

And  Death  at  that  shrine  was  their  greeting. 

But  the  wine-cup  is  empty,  and  -broken  it  lies, 

The  lip  which  it  foamed  for,  is  cold ; 
For  the  red  wing  of  Death  o'er  Gomorrah  now  flies, 

And  Sodom  is  wrapped  in  its  fold. 

The  bride  is  wedded,  but  the  bridegroom  is  Death, 
With  his  cold,  damp,  and  grave-like  hand ; 

Her  pillow  is  ashes,  the  slime-weed  her  wreath, 
Heaven's  flames  are  her  nuptial  band. 

And  near  to  that  cold,  that  desolate  sea, 
Whose  fruits  are  to  ashes  now  turned, 

Not  a  fresh-blown  flower,  not  a  budding  tree, 
Now  blooms  where  those  cities  were  burned. 


143  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


RUTH'S   ANSWER   TO    NAOMI. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Entreat  me  not,  I  muyt  not  hear, 
Mark  but  this  sorrow- beaming  tear; 
Thy  answer's  written  deeply  now 
On  this  warm  cheek  and  clouded  brow 
'T  is  gleaming  o'er  this  eye  of  sadness 
Which  only  near  thee  sparVks  gladne* 

The  hearts  most  dear  to  us  are  gone, 
And  thou  and  /  are  left  alone  • 
Where'er  thou  wanderest,  I  wn)  go, 
I  '11  follow  thee  through  joy  or  woe 
Shouldst  thou  to  other  countries  fiy, 
Where'er  thou  lodgest,  there  will  I. 

Thy  people  shall  my  people  be, 
And  to  thy  God,  I'll  bend  the  knee; 
Whither  thou  fliest,  will  I  fly, 
And  where  thou  diest,  I  will  die; 
And  the  same  sod  which  pillows  thee 
Shall  freshly,  sweetly  bloom  for  me. 


DAVID  AND    JONATHAN. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

On  the  brow  of  Gilboa  is  war's  bloody  stain, 
The  pride  and  the  beauty  of  Israel  is  slain  ; 
O  publish  it  not  in  proud  Askelon's  street, 
Nor  tell  it  in  Gath,  lest  in  triumph  they  meet, 

For  how  are  the  mighty  fallen ! 


POETICAL   REMAINS.  149 

O  mount  of  Gilboa,  no  dew  shall  thou  see, 
Save  the  blood  of  the  Philistine  fall  upon  thee; 
For  the  strong-pinioned  eagle  of  Israel  is  dead, 
Thy  brow  is  his  pillow,  thy  bosom  his  bed ! 

O  how  are  the  mighty  fallen  ! 

• 

Weep,  daughters  of  Israel,  weep  o'er  his  grave ! 
What  breast  will  now  pity,  what  arm  will  now  save? 
O  my  brother !  my  brother  !  this  heart  bleeds  for  thee, 
For  thou  wert  a  friend  and  a  brother  to  me ! 

Ah,  how  are  the  mighty  fallen  1 


THE    SICK-BED. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

O  have  you  watched  beside  the  bed, 
Where  rests  the  weary,  aching  head  ? 

And  have  you  heard  the  long,  deep  groan, 
The  low-said  prayer,  in  half-breathed  tone? 

O  have  you  seen  the  fevered  sleep, 
Which  speaks  of  agony  within  ? 

The  eye  which  would,  but  cannot  weep, 
And  wipe  away  the  stains  of  sin  1 

O  have  you  marked  the  struggling  breath, 
Which  would  but  cannot  leave  its  clay  ? 

And  have  you  marked  the  hand  of  death 
Unbind,  and  bid  it  haste  away  ? 

Then  thou  hast  seen  what  thou  shalt  fed ; 

Then  thou  hast  read  thy  future  doom  ; 
O  pause,  one  moment,  o'er  death's  seal. 

There  's  no  repentance  in  the  tomb. 


150  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


DEATH. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

The  destroyer  cometh ;  his  footstep  is  light, 
He  marketh  the  threshold  of  sorrow  at  night ; 
He  steals  like  a  thief  o'er  the  fond  one's  repose, 
And  chills  the  warm  tide  from  the  heart  as  it  flows. 

His  throne  is  the  tomb,  and  a  pestilent  breath 
Walks  forth  on  the  night-wind,  the  herald  of  death 
His  couch  is  the  bier,  and  the  dark  weeds  of  woe 
Are  the  curtains  which  shroud  joy's  deadliest  foe. 


TO  MY   MOTHER. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

O  thou  whose  care  sustained  my  infant  years, 
And  taught  my  prattling  lip  each  note  of  love ; 

Whose  soothing  voice  breathed  comfort  to  my  fears, 
And  round  my  brow  hope's  brightest  garland  wove ; 

To  thee  my  lay  is  due,  the  simple  song, 

Which  Nature  gave  me  at  life's  opening  day ; 

To  thee  these  rude,  these  untaught  strains  belong, 
Whose  heart  indulgent  will  not  spurn  my  lay. 

O  say,  amid  this  wilderness  of  life, 

What  bosom  would  have  throbbed  like  thine  for  me? 
Who  would  have  smiled  responsive  ?  —  who  in  grief, 

Would  e'er  have  felt,  and,  feeling,  grieved  like  thee  .' 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  151 

Who  would  have  guarded,  with  a  falcon  eye, 
Each  trembling  footstep  or  each  sport  of  fear  ? 

Who  would  have  marked  my  bosom  bounding  high, 
And  clasped  me  to  her  heart,  with  love's  bright  tear? 

Who  would  have  hung  around  my  sleepless  couch, 
And  fanned,  with  anxious  hand,  my  burning  brow? 

Who  would  have  fondly  pressed  my  fevered  lip, 
In  all  the  agony  of  love  and  woe  ? 

None  but  a  mother — none  but  one  like  thee, 

Whose  bloom  has  faded  in  the  midnight  watch ; 
Whose  eye,  for  me,  has  lost  its  witchery, 
*Whose  form  has  felt  disease's  mildew  touch. 

Yes,  thou  hast  lighted  me  to  health  and  life, 
By  the  bright  lustre  of  thy  youthful  bloom — 

Yes,  thou  hast  wept  so  oft  o'er  every  grief, 

That  woe  hath  traced  thy  brow  with  marks  of 
gloom. 

O  then,  to  thee,  this  rude  and  simple  song, 

Which  breathes  of  thankfulness  and  love  for  thee, 

To  thee,  my  mother,  shall  this  lay  belong, 
Whose  life  is  spent  in  toil  and  care  for  me. 


SABRINA. 

A      VOLCANIC      ISLAND,      WHICH      APPEARED      AND       DIS 
APPEARED  AMONG    THE  AZORES,  IN   1811. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Isle  of  the  ocean,  say,  whence  comest  thou  ? 
The  smoke  thy  dark  throne,  and  the  blaze  round  thy 
brow 


152  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

The  voice  of  the  earthquake  proclaims  thee  abroad, 
And  the  deep,  at  thy  coming,  rolls  darkly  and  loud. 

From  the  breast  of  the  ocean,  the  bed  of  the  wave, 
Thou  hast  burst  into  being,  hast  sprung  from  the  grave; 
A  stranger,  wild,  gloomy,  yet  terribly  bright, 
Thou   art  clothed  with  the  darkness,  yet   crowned 
with  the  light. 

Thou  comest  in  flames,  thou  hast  risen  in  fire  ; 
The  wave  is  thy  pillow,  the  tempest  thy  choir; 
They  will  lull  thee  to  sleep  on  the  ocean's  broad  breast, 
A  slumb'ring  volcano,  an  earthquake  at  rest. 

Thou  hast  looked  on  the  isle  —  thou  hast  looked  on 

the  wave — 

Then  hie  thee  again  to  thy  deep,  watery  grave  ; 
Go,  quench  thee  in  ocean,  thou  dark,  nameless  thing, 
Tho.u  spark  from  the  fallen  one's  wide  flaming  wing. 


THE    PROPHECY. 

TO  A  LADY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) , 

Let  me  gaze  awhile  on  that  marble  brow, 

On  that  full,  dark  eye,  on  that  cheek's  warm  glow , 

Let  me  gaze  for  a  moment,  that,  ere  I  die, 

I  may  read  thee,  maiden,  a  prophecy. 

That  brow  may  beam  in  glory  awhile ; 

That  cheek  may  bloom,  and  that  lip  may  smile ; 

That  full,  dark  eye  may  brightly  beam 

In  life's  gay  morn,  in  hope's  young  dream ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.         -  153 

But  clouds  shall  darken  that  brow  of  snow, 

And  sorrow  blight  thy  bosom's  glow. 

I  know  by  that  spirit  so  haughty  and  high, 

I  know  by  that  brightly-flashing  eye, 

That,  maiden,  there 's  that  within  thy  breast, 

Which  hath  marked  thee  out  for  a  soul  unblest : 

The  strife  of  love,  with  pride  shall  wring 

Thy  youthful  bosom's  tenderest  string; 

And  the  cup  of  sorrow,  mingled  for  thee, 

Shall  be  drained  to  the  dregs  in  agony. 

Yes,  maiden,  yes,  I  read  in  thine  eye, 

A  dark,  and  a  doubtful  prophecy. 

Thou  shalt  love,  and  that  love  shall  be  thy  curse  ; 

Thou  wilt  need  no  heavier,  thou  shalt  feel  no  worse 

I  see  the  cloud  and  the  tempest  near ; 

The  voice  of  the  troubled  tide  I  hear ; 

The  torrent  of  sorrow,  the  sea  of  grief, 

The  rushing  waves  of  a  wretched  life ; 

Thy  bosom's  bark  on  the  surge  I  see, 

And,  maiden,  thy  loved  one  is  there  with  thee. 

Not  a  star  in  the  heavens,  not  a  light  on  the  wave ! 

Maiden,  I've  gazed  on  thine  early  grave. 

When  I  am  cold,  and  the  hand  of  Death 

Hath  crowned  my  brow  with  an  icy  wreath  ; 

When  the  dew  hangs  damp  on  this  motionless  lip ; 

When  this  eye  is  closed  in  its  long,  last  sleep, 

Then,  maiden,  pause,  when  thy  heart  beats  high, 

And  think  on  my  last  sad  prophecy. 


13 


154  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


PROPHECY   II. 

TO    ANOTHER    LADY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  have  told  a  maiden  of  hours  of  grief, 

Of  a  bleeding  heart,  of  a  joyless  life ; 

I  have  read  her  a  tale  of  future  woe; 

I  have  marked  her  a  pathway  of  sorrow  below ; 

I  have  read  on  the  page  of  her  blooming  cheek, 

A  darker  doom  than  rny  tongue  dare  speak. 

Now,  maiden,  for  thee,  I  will  turn  mine  eye 

To  a  brighter  path  through  futurity. 

The  clouds  shall  pass  from  thy  brow  away, 

And  bright  be  the  closing  of  life's  long  day ; 

The  storms  shall  murmur  in  silence  to  sleep, 

And  angels  around  thee  their  watches  shall  keep ; 

Thou  shalt  live  in  the  sunbeams  of  love  and  delight, 

And  thy  life  shall  flow  on  till  it  fades  into  night ; 

And  the  twilight  of  age  shall  come  quietly  on ; 

Thou  wilt  feel,  yet  regret  not,  that  daylight  hath  flown; 

For  the  shadows  of  evening  shall  melt  o'er  thy  soul, 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  Heaven  around  thee  shall  roll 

Till  sinking  in  sweet,  dreamless  slumber  to  rest, 

In  the  arms  of  thy  loved  one,  still  blessing  and  blest. 

Thy  soul  shall  glide  on  to  its  harbour  in  Heaven, 

Every  tear  wiped  away — every  error  forgiven. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  155 

PROPHECY    III. 

TO    ANOTHER    LADY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Wilt  thou  rashly  unveil  the  dark  volume  of  fate  I 
It  is  open  before  thee,  repentance  is  late ; 
Too  late,  for  behold,  o'er  the  dark  page  of  woe, 
Move  the  days  of  thy  grief,  yet  unnumbered  below. 
There  is  one,  whose  sad  destiny  mingles  with  thine ; 
He  was  formed  to  be  happy — he  dared  to  repine; 
And  jealousy  mixed  in  his  bright  cup  of  bliss, 
And  the  page  of  his  fate  grew  still  darker  than  this: 
He  gazed  on  thee,  maiden,  he  met  thee,  and  passed ; 
But  better  for  thee  had  the  Siroc's  fell  blast 
Swept  by  thee,  and  wasted  and  faded  thee  there, 
So  youthful,  so  happy,  so  thoughtless,  so  fair. 
And  mark  ye  his  broad  brow  ?  't  is  noble ;  't  is  high  ; 
And  mark  ye  the  flash  of  his  dark,  eagle-eye? 
When  the  wide  wheels  of  time  have  encircled  the 

world ; 

When  the  banners  of  night  in  the  sky  are  unfurled ; 
Then,  maiden,  remember  the  tale  I  have  told, 
For  farther  I  may  not,  I  dare  not  unfold. 
The  rose  on  yon  dark  page  is  sear  and  decayed, 
And  thus,  e'en  in  youth,  shall  thy  fondest  hopes  fade; 
'T  is  an  emblem  of  thee,  broken,  withered,  and  pale — 
Nay,  start  not,  and  blanch  not,  though  dark  be  the  tale; 
An  hour-glass  half-spent,  and  a  tear-bedewed  token, 
A  heart,  withered,  wasted,  and  bleeding  and  broken, 
All  these  are  the  emblems  of  sorrow  to  be ; 
I  will  veil  the  page,  maiden,  in  pity  to  thee. 


150  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

BYRON. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

His  faults  were  great,  his  virtues  less, 
His  mind  a  burning  lamp  of  Heaven ; 

His  talents  were  bestowed  to  bless, 
But  were  as  vainly  lost  as  given. 

His  was  a  harp  of  heavenly  sound, 

The  numbers  wild,  and  bold,  and  clear ; 

But  ah  !  some  demon,  hovering  round, 
Tuned  its  sweet  chords  to  Sin  and  Fear. 

His  was  a  mind  of  giant  mould, 

Which  grasped  at  all  beneath  the  skies ; 

And   his,  a  heart,  so  icy  cold, 
That  virtue  in  its  recess  dies. 


FEATS  OF  DEATH. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  have  passed  o'er  the  earth  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
I  have  walked  the  wild  winds  in  the  morning's  broad 

light ; 
I  have  paused  o'er  the  bower  where  the  Infant  lay 

sleeping, 
And  I  've  left  the  fond  mother  in  sorrow  and  weeping. 

My  pinion  was  spread,  and  the  cold  dew  of  night 
Which  withers  and  moulders  the  flower  in  its  light, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  157 

Fell  silently  o'er  the  warm  cheek  in  its  glow, 
And  I  left  it  there  blighted,  and  wasted,  and  low ; 
I  culled  the  fair  bud,  as  it  danced  in  its  mirth, 
And  I  left  it  to  moulder  and  fade  on  the  earth. 

I  paused  o'er  the  valley,  the  glad  sounds  of  joy 
Rose  soft  through  the  mist,  and  ascended  on  high ; 
The  fairest  were  there,  and  I  paused  in  my  flight, 
And  the  deep  cry  of  wailing  broke  wildly  that  night. 

I  stay  not  to  gather  the  lone  one  to  earth, 
I  spare  not  the  young  in  their  gay  dance  of  mirth, 
But  I  sweep  them  all  on  to  their  home  in  the  grave, 
I  stop  not  to  pity  —  I  stay  not  to  save. 

]  paused  in  my  pathway,  for  beauty  was  there  ; 
It  was  beauty  too  death-like,  too  cold,  and  too  fair ! 
The  deep  purple  fountain  seemed  melting  away, 
And  the  faint  pulse  of  life  scarce  remembered  to  play; 
She  had  thought  on  the  tomb,  she  was  waiting  for  me. 
I  gazed,  I  passed  on,  and  her  spirit  was  free. 

The  clear  stream  rolled  gladly,  and  bounded  along, 
With  ripple,  and  murmur,  arid  sparkle,  and  song; 
The  minstrel  was  tuning  his  wild  harp  to  love, 
And  sweet,  and  half-sad  were  the  numbers  he  wove. 
I  passed,  and  the  harp  of  the  bard  was  unstrung; 
O'er  the  stream  which  rolled  deeply,  'twas  recklessly 

hung ; 

The  minstrel  was  not !  and  I  passed  on  alone, 
O'er  the  newly-raised   turf,  and   the   rudely-carved 

stone. 


13  » 


158  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

AUCTION  EXTRAORDINARY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  dreamed  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  my  slumbers, 
And  as  fast  as  I  dreamed  it,  it  came  into  numbers ; 
My  thoughts  ran  along  in  such  beautiful  metre, 
I'm  sure  I  ne'er  saw  any  poetry  sweeter; 
It  seemed  that  a  law  had  been  recently  made 
That  a  tax  on  old  bachelors'  pates  should  be  laid : 
And  in  order  to  make  them  all  willing  to  marry, 
The  tax  was  as  large  as  a  man  could  well  carry.    - 
The  bachelors  grumbled,  and  said  't  was  no  use ; 
'T  was  horrid  injustice,  and  horrid  abuse, 
And  declared  that  to  save  their  own   hearts'-blood 

from  spilling, 

Of  such  a  vile  tax  they  would  not  pay  a  shilling. 
But  the  rulers  determined  them  still  to  pursue, 
So  they  set  the  old  bachelors  up  at  vendue. 
A  crier  was  sent  through  the  town  to  and  fro, 
To  rattle  his  bell,  and  his  trumpet  to  blow, 
And  to  call  out  to  all  he  might  meet  in  his  way, 
"  Ho  !  forty  old  bachelors  sold  here  to-day !" 
And  presently  all  the  old  maids  in  the  town, 
Each  in  her  very  best  bonnet  and  gown, 
From  thirty  to  sixty,  fair,  plain,  red,  and  pale, 
Of  every  description,  all  flocked  to  the  sale. 
The  auctioneer  then  in  his  labour  began, 
And  called  out  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a  man, 
"  How  much  for  a  bachelor  ?  who  wants  to  buy  ?" 
In  a  twink,*  every  maiden  responded,  "  I, — I ;" 

*  "  That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  her  love." — Shdkspeare 
[EDITOR.] 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  159 

In  short,  at  a  highly-extravagant  price, 

The  bachelors  all  were  sold  oft'  in  a  trice; 

And  forty  old  maidens,  some  younger,  some  older, 

Each  lugged  an  old  bachelor  home  on  her  shoulder. 


THE   BACHELOR. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

To  the  world,  (whose  dread  laugh  he  would  tremble 

to  hear, 
From  whose  scorn  he  would  shrink  with  a  cowardly 

fear,) 

The  old  bachelor  proudly  and  boldly  will  say, 
Single  lives  are  the  longest,  single  lives  are  most  gay. 

To  the  ladies,  with  pride,  he  will  always  declare, 
That  the  links  in  love's  chain  are  strife,  trouble,  and 

care; 

That  a  wife  is  a  torment,  and  he  will  have  none, 
But  at  pleasure  will  roam  through  the  wide  world 

alone. 

And  let  him  pass  on,  in  his  sulky  of  state ; 
O  say,  who  would  envy  that  mortal  his  fate  1 
To  brave  all  the  ills  of  life's  tempest  alone, 
Not  a  heart  to  respond  the  warm  notes  of  his  own. 

His  joys  undivided  no  longer  will  please  ; 

The  warm  tide  of  his   heart  through  inaction  will 

freeze : 

His  sorrows  concealed,  and  unanswered  his  sighs, 
The  old  bachelor  curses  his  folly,  and  dies. 


160  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Pass  on,  then,  proud  lone  one,  pass  on  to  thy  fate ; 
Thy  sentence  is  sealed,  thy  repentance  too  late ; 
Like  an  arrow,  which  leaves  not  a  trace  on  the  wind, 
No  mark  of  thy  pathway  shall  linger  behind. 

Not  a  sweet  voice  shall  murmur  its  sighs  o'er  thy  tomb; 
Not  a  fair  hand  shall  teach  thy  lone  pillow  to  bloom ; 
Not  a  kind  tear  shall  water  thy  dark,  lonely  bed ; 
By  the  living  't  was  scorned,  't  is  refused  to  the  dead. 


THE    GUARDIAN   ANGEL. 

TO   MISS    E.    C. COMPOSED   ON    A    BLANK    LEAF    OF 

HER    PALEY,    DURING    RECITATION. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  'm  thy  guardian  angel,  sweet  maid,  and  I  rest 
in  mine  own  chosen  temple,  thy  innocent  breast ; 
At  midnight  I  steal  from  my  sacred  retreat, 
When  the  chords  of  thy  heart  in  soft  unison  beat. 

When  thy  bright  eye  is  closed,  when  thy  dark  tresses 

flow 
In  beautiful  wreaths  o'er  thy  pillow  of  snow  ; 

0  then  I  watch  o'er  thee,  all  pure  as  thou  art, 
And  listen  to  music  which  steals  from  thy  heart. 

Thy  smile  is  the  sunshine  which  gladdens  my  soul, 
My  tempest  the  clouds,  which  around  thee  may  icll, 

1  feast  my  light  form  on  thy  rapture-breathed  sighs, 
And  drink  at  the  fount  of  those  beautiful  eyes. 

The  thoughts  of  thy  heart  are  recorded  by  me ; 
There  are  some  which,  half-breathed,  half-acknow 
ledged  by  thee, 


POETICAL   REMAINS.  161 

Steal  sweetly  and  silently  o'er  thy  pure  breast, 
Just  ruffling'its  calmness,  then  murm'ring  to  rest. 

Like  a  breeze  o'er  the  lake,  when  it  breathlessly  lies, 
With  its  own   mimic  mountains,  and    star-spangled 

skies, 

I  stretch  my  light  pinions  around  thee  when  sleeping, 
To  guard  thee  from  spirits  of  sorrow  and  weeping. 

I  breathe  o'er  thy  slumbers  sweet  dreams  of  delight, 
Till  you  wake  but  to  sigh  for  the  visions  of  night ; 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  pathway  may  lie, 
Be  it  clouded  with  sorrow,  or  brilliant  with  joy, 
My  spirit  shall  watch  thee,  wherever  thou  art, 
My  incense  shall  rise  from  the  throne  of  thy  heart. 
Farewell !  for  the  shadows  of  evening  are  fled, 
And  the  young  rays  of  morning  are  wreathed  round 
my  head. 


ON    THE   CREW   OF  A   VESSEL, 

WHO    WERE    FOUND    DEAD    AT    SEA. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

The  breeze  blew  fair,  the  waving  sea 
Curled  sparkling  round  the  vessel's  side 

The  canvass  spread  with  bosom  free 
Its  swan-like  pinions  o'er  the  tide. 

Evening  had  gemmed  with  glittering  stars, 

Her  coronet  so  darkly  grand  ; 
The  Queen  of  Night,  with  fleecy  clouds, 

Had  formed  her  turban's  snowy  band. 


162  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

On,  on  the  stately  vessel  flew, 

With  streamer  waving  far  and  wide ; 

When  lo !  a  bark  appeared  in  view, 
And  gaily  danced  upon  the  tide. 

Each  way  the  breeze  its  wild  wing  veered. 
That  way  the  stranger  vessel  turned ; 

Now  near  she  drew,  now  wafted  far, 
She  fluttered,  trembled,  and  returned. 

"  It  is  the  pirate's  cursed  bark  ! 

The  villains  linger  to  decoy ! 
Thus  bounding  o'er  the  waters  dark, 

They  seek  to  lure,  and  then  destroy. 

"  Perchance,  those  strange  and  wayward  signs 

May  be  the  signals  of  distress," 
The  Captain  cried,  "  for  mark  ye,  now, 

Her  sails  are  flapping  wide  and  loose." 

And  now  the  stranger  vessel  came 
Near  to  that  gay  and  gallant  bark ; 

It  seemed  a  wanderer  fair  and  lone, 
Upon  Life's  wave,  so  deep  and  dark. 

And  not  a  murmur,  not  a  sound, 

Came  from  that  lone  and  dreary  ship; 

The  icy  chains  of  silence  bound 
Each  rayless  eye  and  pallid  lip. 

For  Death's  wing  had  been  waving  there, 
The  cold  dew  hung  on  every  brow, 

And  sparkled  there,  like  angel  tears, 
Shed  o'er  the  silent  crew  below. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  163 

Onward  that  ship  was  gaily  flying, 

Its  bosom  the  sailor's  grave ; 
The  breeze,  'mid  the  shrouds,  in  low  notes,  sighing 

Their  requiem  over  the  brave. 

Fly  on,  fly  on,  thou  lone  vessel  of  death, 

Fly  on,  with  thy  desolate  crew ; 
For  mermaids  are  twining  a  sea-weed  wreath, 

'Mong  the  red  coral  groves  for  you. 


WOMAN'S   LOVE. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

They  told  me  of  her  history — her  love 

Was  a  neglected  flame,  which  had  consumed 

The  vase  wherein  it  kindled.     O  how  fraught 

With  bitterness  is  unrequited  love ! 

To  know  that  we  have  cast  life's  hope  away 

On  a  vain  shadow ! 

Hers  was  a  gentle  passion,  quiet,  deep, 

As  a  woman's  love  should  be, 

All  tenderness  and  silence,  only  known 

By  the  soft  meaning  of  a  downcast  eye, 

Which  almost  fears  to  look  its  timid  thoughts ; 

A  sigh,  scarce  heard ;  a  blush,  scarce  visible, 

Alone  may  give  it  utterance. — Love  is 

A  beautiful  feeling  in  a  woman's  heart, 

When  felt,  as  only  woman  love  can  feel ! 

Pure,  as  the  snow-fall,  when  its  latest  shower 

Sinks   on   spring-flowers ;    deep,   as   a   cave-locked 

fountain ; 

And  changeless  as  the  cypress's  green  leaves ; 
And  like  them,  sad  !     She  nourished 


164  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Fond  hopes  and  sweet  anxieties,  and  fed 

A  passion  unconfessed,  till  he  she  loved 

Was  wedded  to  another. — Then  she  grew 

Moody  and  melancholy ;  one  alone 

Had  power  to  soothe  her  in  her  wanderings, 

Her  gentle  sister ; — But  that  sister  died, 

And  the  unhappy  girl  was  left  alone, 

A  maniac. — She  would  wander  far,  and  shunned 

Her  own  accustomed  dwelling ;  and  her  haunt 

Was  that  dead  sister's  grave :  and  that  to  her 

Was  as  a  home. 


TO   A  LADY, 

WHOSE     SINGING     RESEMBLED     THAT     OF     AN     ABSENT 
SISTER. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Oh  !  touch  the  chord  yet  once  again, 
Nor  chide  me,  though  I  weep  the  while; 

Believe  me,  that  deep  seraph  strain 

Bore  with  it  memory's  moonlight  smile. 

It  murmured  of  an  absent  friend ; 

The  voice,  the  air,  't  was  all  her  own ; 
And  hers  those  wild,  sweet  notes,  which  blend 

In  one  mild,  murmuring,  touching  tone. 

And  days  and  months  have  darkly  passed, 
Since  last  I  listened  to  her  lay; 

And  Sorrow's  cloud  its  shade  hath  cast, 
Since  then,  across  my  weary  way. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  165 

Yet  still  the  strain  comes  sweet  and  clear, 
Like  seraph-whispers,  lightly  breathing; 

Hush,  busy  memory,  Sorrow's  tear 

Will  blight  the  garland  thou  art  wreathing. 

'T  is  sweet,  though  sad — yes,  I  will  stay, 

I  cannot  tear  myself  away. 

I  thank  thee,  lady,  for  the  strain, 

The  tempest  of  my  soul  is  still ; 
Then  touch  the  chord  yet  once  again, 

For  thou  canst  calm  the  storm  at  will ! 


TO   JV1Y   FRIEND    AND   PATRON, 

M K ,  ESQ. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

And  can  my  simple  harp  be  strung 
To  higher  theme,  to  nobler  end, 

Than  that  of  gratitude  to  thee, 

To  thee,  my  father  and  my  friend  ? 

I  may  not,  cannot,  will  not  say 

All  that  a  grateful  heart  would  breathe ; 

But  I  may  frame  a  simple  lay, 

Nor  Slander  blight  the  blushing  wreath 

Yes,  I  will  touch  the  string  to  thee, 
Nor  fear  its  wildness  will  offend; 

For  well  I  know  that  thou  wilt  be, 
What  thou  hast  ever  been — a  friend. 
14 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

There  are,  whose  cold  and  idle  gaze 

Would  freeze  the  current  where  it  flows ; 

But  Gratitude  shall  guard  the  fount, 
And  Faith  shall  light  it  as  it  flows. 

Then  tell  me,  may  I  dare  to  twine, 
While  o'er  my  simple  harp  I  bend. 

This  little  offering  for  thee, 

For  thee,  my  father,  and  my  friend? 


ON  SEEING 
A  PICTURE  OF  THE  VIRGIN  MARY, 

TAINTED  SEVERAL  CENTURIES  SINCE. 

A    FRAGMENT. 
(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year /> 

Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell 

Of  book,  of  rosary,  and  bell ; 

Of  cloistered  nun,  with  brow  of  gloom, 

Immured  within  her  living  tomb; 

Of  monks,  of  saints,  and  vesper-song, 

Borne  gently  by  the  breeze  along ; 

Of  deep-toned  organ's  pealing  swell ; 

Of  Ave  Marie,  and  funeral  knell ; 

Of  midnight  taper,  dim  and  small, 

Just  glimmering  through  the  high-arched  hall; 

Of  gloomy  cell,  of  penance  lone, 

Which  can  for  darkest  deeds  atone 

Roll  back,  and  lift  the  veil  of  night. 

For  I  would  view  the  anchorite. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  167 

Yes,  there  he  sits,  so  sad,  so  pale, 

Shuddering  at  Superstition's  tale : 

Crossing  his  breast  with  meagre  hand, 

While  saints  and  priests,  a  motley  band, 

Arrayed  before  him,  urge  their  claim 

To  heal  in  the  Redeemer's  name; 

To  mount  the  saintly  ladder,  (made 

By  every  monk,  of  every  grade, 

From  portly  abbot,  fat  and  fair, 

To  yon  lean  starveling,  shivering  there,) 

And  mounting  thus,  to  usher  in 

The  soul,  thus  ransomed  from  its  sin. 

And  tell  me,  hapless  bigot,  why, 

For  what,  for  whom  did  Jesus  die, 

If  pyramids  of  saints  must  rise 

To  form  a  passage  to  the  skies  1 

And  think  you  man  can  wipe  away 

With  fast  and  penance,  day  by  day, 

One  single  sin,  too  dark  to  fade 

Before  a  bleeding  Saviour's  shade? 

O  ye  of  little  faith,  beware  ! 

For  neither  shrift,  nor  saint,  nor  prayer, 

Would  aught  avail  ye  without  Him, 

Beside  whom  saints  themselves  grow  dim. 

Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  raise 

The  faded  forms  of  other  days  ! 

Yon  time-worn  picture,  darkly  grand, 

The  work  of  some  forgotten  hand, 

Will  teach  thee  half  thy  mazy  way, 

While  Fancy's  watch-fires  dimly  play. 

Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tel? 

Of  secret  charm,  of  holy  spell, 

Of  Superstition's  midnight  rite, 

Of  wild  Devotion's  seraph  flight, 

Of  Melancholy's  tearful  eye, 

Of  the  sad  votaress'  frequent  sigh, 


163  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

That  trembling  from  her  bosom  rose, 
Divided  'twixt  her  Saviour's  woes 
And  some  warm  image  lingering  there, 
Which,  half-repulsed  by  midnight  prayer, 
Still,  like  an  outcast  child,  will  creep 
Where  sweetly  it  was  wont  to  sleep, 
And  mingle  its  unhallowed  sigh 
With  cloister-prayer  and  rosary ; 
Then  tell  the  pale,  deluded  one 
Her  vows  are  breathed  to  God  alone ; 
Those  vows,  which  tremulously  rise, 

Love's  last,  love's  sweetest  sacrifice. 

[Unfinished.'} 


AMERICAN    POETRY. 

A    FRAGMENT. 
(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Must  every  shore  ring  boldly  to  the  voice 

Of  sweet  poetic  harmony,  save  this? 

Rouse  thee,  America  !  for  shame  !  for  shame  ! 

Gather  thy  infant  bands,  and  rise  to  join 
Thy  glimmering  taper  to  the  holy  flame: — 

Such  honour,  if  no  other,  may  be  thine. 
Shall  Gallia's  children  sing  beneath  the  yoke? 

Shall  Ireland's  harpstrings thrill,  though  all  unstrung? 
And  must  America,  her  bondage  broke, 

Oppression's  blood-stains  from  her  garment  wrung, 
Must  she  be  silent? — who  may  then  rejoice? 

If  she  be  tuneless,  Harmony,  farewell  ! 
Oh  !  shame,  America !  wild  freedom's  voice 

Echoes,  "  shame  on  thee,"  from  her  wild-wood  dell. 
Shall  conquered  Greece  still  sing  her  glories  past? 
Shall  humbled  Italy  in  ruins  smile? 
And  canst  thou  then [Unfinished.'} 


POETICAL  REMAINS.    .  169 

HEADACHE. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.; 

Headache  !  thou  bane  to  Pleasure's  fairy  spell, 
Thou  fiend,  thou  foe  to  joy,  I  know  thee  well ! 
Beneath  thy  lash  I  've  writhed  for  many  an  hour, — 
1  hate  thee,  for  I  've  known,  and  dread  thy  power. 

Even  the  heathen  gods  were  made  to  feel 
The  aching  torments  which  thy  hand  can  deal ; 
And  Jove,  the  ideal  king  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Owned  thy  dread  power,  which  called  stern  Wisdom 
forth. 

Would'st  thou  thus  ever  bless  each  aching  head, 
And  bid  Minerva  make  the  brain  her  bed, 
Blessings  might  then  be  taught  to  rise  from  woe, 
And  Wisdom  spring  from  every  throbbing  brow. 

But  always  the  reverse  to  me,  unkind, 
Folly  for  ever  dogs  thee  close  behind  ; 
And  from  this  burning  brow,  her  cap  and  bell, 
For  ever  jingle  Wisdom's  funeral  knell. 


TO    A    STAR. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Thou  brightly-glittering  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  the  brow  of  Heaven 
Oh  !  were  this  fluttering  spirit  free, 
How  quick  't  would  spread  its  wings  to  thee. 
14* 


170  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

How  calmly,  brightly  dost  thou  shine, 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  Virtue's  shrine ! 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  may'st  boast 
Was  never  ransomed,  never  lost. 

There,  bjeings  pure  as  Heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys  together  share ; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string, 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  Heaven's  refulgent  lights ; 
There  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll, 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  Heaven, 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee, 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free  ! 


SONG  OF  VICTORY, 

FOR    THE    DEATH    OF   GOLIATH 
(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Strike  with  joy  the  wild  harp's  string, 
God,  O  Israel,  is  your  King  ! 
We  have  slain  our  deadliest  foe, 
David's  arm  hath  laid  him  low. 

Saul  hath  oft  his  thousands  slain, 
His  trophies  have  bedecked  the  plain ; 
But  David's  tens  of  thousands  lie 
In  slaughtered  millions,  mounted  high. 


POETICAL   REMAINS.  171 

Sound  the  trumpet  —  strike  the  string, 
Loud  let  the  song  of  victory  ring ; 
Wreathe  with  glory  David's  brow, 
He  hath  laid  Goliath  low. 

Mark  him  on  yon  crimson  plain, 
He  is  conquered  —  he  is  slain  ; 
He  who  lately  rose  so  high, 
Scoffed  at  man,  and  braved  the  sky. 

Strike  with  joy  the  wild  harp's  string, 
God,  O  Israel,  is  your  king  ! 
We  have  slain  our  deadliest  foe, 
David's  arm  hath  laid  him  low. 


THE  INDIAN  CHIEF  AND  CONCONAY. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

The  Indian  Chieftain  is  far  away, 

Through  the  forest  his  footsteps  fly, 
But  his  heart  is  behind  him  with  Conconay, 
He  thinks  of  his  love  in  the  bloody  fray, 

When  the  storm  of  war  is  high. 

But  little  he  thinks  of  the  bloody  foe, 

Who  is  bearing  that  love  away ; 
And  little  he  thinks  of  her  bosom's  woe, 
And  little  he  thinks  of  the  burning  brow 

Of  his  lovely  Conconay. 

They  tore  her  away  from  her  friends,  from  her  home, 

They  tore  her  away  from  her  Chief. 
Through  the  wild-wood,  when  weary,  they  forced 
her  to  roam, 


172  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Or  to  dash  the  light  oar  in  the  river's  white  foam, 
While  her  bosom  o'erflowed  with  grief. 

But  there  came  a  foot,  't  was  swift,  't  was  light, 

'T  was  the  brother  of  him  she  loved  ; 
His  heart  was  kind,  and  his  eye  was  bright  ; 
He  paused  not  by  day,  and  he  slept  not  by  night, 

While  through  the  wild  forest  he  roved. 

'T  was  Lightfoot,  the  generous,  't  was  Lightfoot  the 

young, 

And  he  loved  the  sweet  Conconay; 
But  his  bosom  to  honour  and  virtue  was  strung, 
And  the  chords  of  his  heart  should  to  breaking  be 

wrung, 
Ere  love  should  gain  o'er  him  the  sway. 

Far,  far  from  her  stern  foes  he  bore  her  away, 

And  sought  his  own  forest  once  more  ; 
But  sad  was  the  heart  of  the  young  Conconay, 
Her  bosom  recoiled  when  she  strove  to  be  gay, 
And  was  even  more  drear  than  before. 


'T  is  evening,  and  weary,  and  faint,  and  weak 

Is  the  beautiful  Conconay; 
She  could  wander  no  farther,  she  strove  to  speak, 
But  lifeless  she  sunk  upon  Lightfoot's  neck, 

And  seemed  breathing  her  soul  away. 

The  young  warrior  raised  his  eyes  to  Heaven, 

He  turned  them  towards  the  west  ; 
For  one  moment  a  ray  of  light  was  given, 
Like  lightning,  which  through  the  cloud  hath  riven 
But  to  strike  at  the  fated  breast. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  173 

For  there  was  his  brother  returning  from  far, 

O'er  his  shoulder  his  scalps  were  slung ; 
For  he  had  been  victor  amid  the  war, 
His  plume  had  gleamed  like  the  polarfctar, 
And  on  him  had  the  victory  hung. 

The  Chieftain  paused  in  his  swift  career, 

For  he  knew  his  Conconay; 
He  saw  the  maid  his  heart  held  dear, 
On  his  brother's  breast,  in  the  forest  drear, 

From  her  home  so  far  away. 

He  bent  his  bow,  the  arrow  flew, 

It  was  aimed  at  Lightfoot's  breast ; 
And  it  pierced  a  heart,  as  warm  and  true 
As  ever  a  mortal  bosom  knew, 

Or  in  mortal  garb  was  dressed. 

He  turned  to  his  love  —  from  her  brilliant  eye 

The  cloud  was  passing  away; 
She  let  fall  a  tear —  she  breathed  a  sigh  — 
She  turned  towards  Lightfoot  —  she  uttered  a  cry, 

For  weltering  in  gore  he  lay. 

Her  heart  was  filled  with  horror  and  woe, 

When  she  gazed  on  the  form  of  her  Chief; 
*T  was  his  loved  hand  that  had  bent  the  bow, 
'T  was  he  who  had  laid  her  preserver  low ; 
And  she  yielded  her  soul  to  grief. 

And  'twas  said,  that  ere  time  had  healed  the  wound 

In  the  breast  of  the  mourning  maid, 
That  a  pillar  was  reared  on  the  fatal  ground, 
And  ivy  the  snow-white  monument  crowned 

With  its  dark  and  jealous  shade. 


174  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE    MOTHER'S   LAMENT 

FOR  HER  INFANT. 
(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Cold  is  his  brow,  and  the  dew  of  the  evening 

Hangs  damp  o'er  that  form  I  so  fondly  caressed ; 

Dim  is  that  eye,  which  once  sparkled  with  gladness, 
Hushed  are  the  griefs  of  my  infant  to  rest. 

Calmly  he  lies  on  a  bosom  far  colder 

Than  that  which  once  pillowed  his  health-blushing 

cheek ; 
Calmly  he  '11  rest  there,  and  silently  moulder, 

No  grief  to  disturb  him,  no  sigh  to  awake. 

Dread  king  of  the  grave,  Oh !  return  me  my  child  ! 

Unfetter  his  heart  from  the  cold  chains  of  death ! 
Monarch  of  terrors,  so  gloomy,  so  silent, 

Loose  the  adamant  clasp  of  thy  cold  icy  wreath  1 

Where  is  my  infant?  the  storms  may  descend, 
The  snows  of  the  winter  may  cover  his  head ; 

The  wing  of  the  wind  o'er  his  low  couch  may  bend, 
And  the   frosts   of  the  night  sparkle  bright   o'er 
the  dead. 

Where  is  my  infant  ?  the  damp  ground  is  cold, 
Too  cold  for  those  features  so  laughing  and  light ; 

Methinks,  these  fond  arms  should  encircle  his  form, 
And  shield  off  the  tempest  which  wanders  at  night. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  175 

This  fond  bosom  loved  him,  ah  !  loved  him  too  dearly, 
And  the  frail  idol  fell,  while  I  bent  to  adore ; 

All  its  beauty  has  faded,  and  broken  before  me 
Is  the  god  my  heart  ventured  to  worship  before. 

'T  is  just,  and  I  bow  'neath  the  mandate  of  Heaven, 
Thy  will,  oh,  my  Father  !  for  ever  be  done  ! 

Bless  God,  O  my  soul,  for  the  chastisement  given, 
Henceforth  will  I  worship  my  Saviour  alone  I 


ON  THE  MOTTO  OF  A  SEAL. 

"IF  I  LOSE  THEE,  I  AM  LOST." 
ADDRESSED  TO  A  FRIEND. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Wafted  o'er  a  treacherous  sea 
Far  from  home,  and  far  from  thee; 
Between  the  Heaven  and  ocean  tossed, 
"  If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 

When  the  polar  star  is  beaming 
O'er  the  dark-browed  billows  gleaming, 
I  think  of  thee  and  dangers  crossed, 
For,  "If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost. 

When  the  lighthouse  fire  is  blazing, 
High  towards  Heaven  its  red  crest  raising, 
I  think  of  thee,  while  onward  tossed, 
For,  "  If  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 


179  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

MORNING. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

I  come  in  the  breath  of  the  wakened  breeze, 
I  kiss  the  flowers,  arid  I  bend  the  trees ; 
And  I  shake  the  dew,  which  hath  fallen  by  night, 
From  its  throne,  on  the  lily's  pure  bosom  of  white. 
Awake  thee,  when  bright  from  my  couch  in  the  sky, 
I  beam  o'er  the  mountains,  and  come  from  pn  high ; 
When  my  gay  purple  banners  are  waving  afar; 
When  my  herald,  gray  dawn,  hath  extinguished  each 

star; 

When  I  smile  on  the  woodlands,  and  bend  o'er  the  lake, 
Then  awake  thee,  O  maiden,  I  bid  thee  awake ! 
Thou  mayst  slumber  when  all  the  wide  arches  of 

Heaven 

Glitter  bright  with  the  beautiful  fire  of  even ; 
When  the  moon  walks  in  glory,  and  looks  from  on  high, 
O'er  the  clouds  floating  far  through  the  clear  azure  sky. 
Drifting  on  like  the  beautiful  vessels  of  Heaven, 
To  their  far-awTay  harbour,  all  silently  driven, 
Bearing  on,  in  their  bosoms,  the  children  of  light, 
Who  have  fled  from  this  dark  world  of  sorrow  and 

night ; 
When  the  lake  lies  in  calmness  and  darkness,  save 

where 

The  bright  ripple  curls,  'neath  the  smile  of  a  star; 
When  all  is  in  silence  and  solitude  here, 
Then  sleep,  maiden,  sleep !  without  sorrow  or  fear ! 
But  when  I  steal  silently  over  the  lake, 
Awake  thee  then,  maiden,  awake  !  oh,  awake  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  177 

to 

SHAKSPEARE. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Shakspeare!  "with  all  thy  faults,  (and  few  have  more,) 
I  love  thee  still,"  and  still  will  con  thee  o'er. 
Heaven,  in  compassion  to  man's  erring  heart, 
Gave  thee  of  virtue  —  then,  of  vice  a  part, 
Lest  we,  in  wonder  here,  should  bow  before  thee, 
Break  God's  commandment,  worship,  and  adore  thee  : 
But  admiration  now,  and  sorrow  join ; 
His  works  we  reverence,  while  we  pity  thine. 


TO   A   FRIEND, 

WHOM  I  HAD  NOT  SEEN  SINCE  MY  CHILDHOOD. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

And  thou  hast  marked,  in  childhood's  hour, 
The  fearless  boundings  of  my  breast, 

When,  fresh  as  Summer's  opening  flower, 
I  freely  frolicked,  and  was  blessed. 

Oh !  say,  was  not  this  eye  more  bright? 

Were  not  these  lips  more  wont  to  srnile  ? 
Methinks  that  then  my  heart  was  light, 

And  I  a  fearless,  joyous  child. 

And  thou  didst  mark  me  gay  and  wild, 
My  careless,  reckless  laugh  of  mirth  ; 

The  simple  pleasures  of  a  child, 
The  holiday  of  man  on  earth. 
15 


178  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Then  thou  hast  seen  me  in  that  hour, 
When  every  nerve  of  life  was  new, 

When  pleasures  fanned  youth's  infant  flower. 
And  Hope  her  witcheries  round  it  threw. 

That  hour  is  fading,  it  has  fled, 
And  I  am  left  in  darkness  now; 

A  wand'rer  towards  a  lowly  bed, 
The  grave,  that  home  of  all  below. 


THE   FEAR   OF   MADNESS. 

WRITTEN    WHILE    CONFINED    TO    HER    BED,   DI/klNG    HER 
LAST    ILLNESS. 

There  is  a  something  which  I  dread, 

It  is  a  dark,  a  fearful  thing ; 
It  steals  along  with  withering  tread, 

Or  sweeps  on  wild  destruction's  wing. 

That  thought  comes  o'er  me  in  the  hour 
Of  grief,  of  sickness,  or  of  sadness  ; 

'Tis  not  the  dread  of  death  —  'tis  more, 
It  is  the  dread  of  madness. 

Oh  !  may  these  throbbing  pulses  pause, 

Forgetful  of  their  feverish  course ; 
May  this  hot  brain,  which  burning,  glows 

With  all  a  fiery  whirlpool's  force, 

Be  cold,  and  motionless,  and  still, 

A  tenant  of  its  lowly  bed, 
But  let  not  dark  delirium  steal  — 

*#*##*## 

[Unfinished.] 

(This  was  the  last  piece  she  ever  wrote.) 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  179 


MARITORNE, 

OR   THE 

PIRATE   OF   MEXICO. 

(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

ON  Barritaria's  brow  the  watch-fires  glow, 

Their  beacons  beaming  on  the  gulf  below, 

As  if  to  dare  some  death-devoted  hand 

To  quench  in  blood  the  boldly  blazing  brand ; 

Some  Orlean  herald  arm'd  with  threatening  high 

To  daunt  the  Pirate-chieftain's  haughty  eye, 

To  bid  him  bend  to  tame  and  vulgar  law, 

And  bow  to  painted  things  with  trembling  awe. 

Such  herald  well  may  come, — but  woe  betide 

The  self-devoted  messenger  of  pride ! 

Such  herald  well  may  come,  but  far  and  near 

The  name  of  Maritorne  is  joined  with  fear; 

His  vessels  proudly  ride  the  Gulf  at  will, 

Whilst  he  is  Chief  of  Barritaria's  Isle. 

The  iron  hand  of  power  is  raised  in  vain, 

Whilst  Maritorne  is  master  of  the  main. 

'Tis  his  to  sacrifice — 'tis  his  to  spare  — 

He  moves  in  silence,  and  is  everywhere. 

His  victims  must  with  pompous  boldness  bleed, 

But  if  he  pities,  who  may  tell  the  deed  ? 

'T  is  done  in  secret,  that  no  eye  may  mark 

One  thought  more  gentle,  or  one  act  less  dark. 

And  he,  the  governor  of  yon  fair  land, 

Whose  tongue  speaks  freedom,  but  whose  guilty  hand 


ISO  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Grasps  the  half-loosened  manacles  again, 

And  adds  unseen  fresh  links  to  slavery's  chain, 

Hated  full  deeply,  dreaded  and  abhorr'd, 

The  Pirate-chief,  the  haughty  island  lord. 

And  cause  enough,  deep  hidden  in  his  breast, 

Had  he,  the  moody  leader  of  the  west, 

To  hate  that  fearful  man,  who  stood  alone 

Feared,  dreaded,  and  detested,  tho'  unknown  ; 

That  cause  was  smother'd  or  burst  forth  to  light, 

Wreath'd  in  the  incense  of  a  patriot's  right, 

To  drive  the  bold  intruder  from  the  shore, 

Where  war  and  bloodshed  must  appear  no  more; 

But  deep  within  his  heart  the  crater  glow'd 

From  whence  this  gilded  stream  of  lava  flow'd ; 

'T  was  wounded  pride,  which,  writhing  inly,  bled, 

And  called  for  vengeance  on  the  offender's  head ; 

For  Maritorne,  with  bold  unbending  brow, 

Had  scorn'd  his  power — that  were  enough  ; — but  lo ! 

There,  on  the  very  threshold  of  his  home, 

There  had  the  traitor  Pirate  dar'd  to  come, 

And  thence  had  borne  his  own,  his  only  child, 

Mate  all  unfit  for  Maritorne  the  wild  ; 

And  when  the  maiden  curs'd  him  in  her  breast 

Those  curses  came  not  o'er  him — he  was  blest — 

For  but  to  gaze  upon  her,  and  to  feel 

That  she  whom  he  ador'd  was  near  him  still, 

Was  bliss  !  was  Heav'n  itself!  and  he  whose  eye 

Bent  not  to  aught  of  dull  mortality 

Shrunk  with  a  tremulous  delight  whene'er 

The  voice  of  Laura  rose  upon  his  ear ; 

That  voice  had  pow'r  to  quell  the  fiend  within, 

Whose  touch  had  turn'd  his  very  soul  to  sin. 

That  fiend  was  vengeance ; — e'en  his  virtues  bow'cl 

Before  the  altar  which  to  vengeance  glow'd. 

His  virtues  !  yes ;  for  even  fiends  may  boast 

A  shadow  of  the  glory  they  have  lost, — 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  181 

But  oh !  like  them,  his  crimes  were  dark  and  deep, 
For  vengeance  was  awake, — can  vengeance  sleep? 
Yes ;  sleep,  as  tigers  sleep,  with  half-shut  eye, 
Crouching  to  spring  upon  the  passer-by, 
With  parch'd  tongue  cleaving  to  his  blacken'd  cell, 
StifPning  with  thirst,  and  jaws  which  hunger  fell 
Hath  sharply  whetted,  quiv'ring  to  devour 
The  reckless  wretch  abandoned  to  his  pow'r. 
Yes :  thus  may  vengeance  sleep  in  breast  like  his, 
Where  thoughts  of  wild  revenge  are  thoughts  of  bliss. 
Thus  may  it  sleep,  like  ^Etna's  burning  breast, 
To  burst  in  thunders  when  'tis  dreaded  least; 
For  his  had  been  the  joyless,  thankless  part, 
Of  one  who  warm'd  a  viper  at  his  heart, 
And  clasp'd  the  venom'd  reptile  to  his  breast 
Till  wounded  by  the  ingrate  he  caress'd. 
Such  had  been  Maritorne's  accursed  fate, 
Ere  he  became  the  harden'd  child  of  hate. 
At  first  his  breast  was  torn  with  anguish  wild, 
He  curs'd  himself,  then  bitterly  revil'd 
The  world,  as  hollow-hearted,  false,  unkind ; 
He  curs'd  himself,  and  doubly  curs'd  mankind  ; 
And  then  his  heart  grew  callous,  and  like  steel 
Grasp'd  in  his  hand,  had  equal  power  to  feel. 
'T  was  like  yon  mountain  snow-crest,  chill  tho'  bright, 
Cold  to  the  touch,  but  dazzling  to  the  sight, 
Till  when  the  hour  of  darkness  gathers,  then 
The  sunbeam  fades,  the  ice  grows  dim  again. 
He  had  a  friend,  one  on  whom  fancy's  eye 
Had  deeply,  rashly  stamp'd  fidelity: 
*Traitor  had  better  seem'd — worm — viper — aught — 
The  vilest,  veriest,  wretch  e'er  named  in  thought, 
For  he  was  sin's  own  son,  and  all  that  e'er 
Angels  above  may  hate  or  mortals  fear. 
There  was  a  fascination  in  his  eye 
Which  those  who  felt,  migh    seek  in  vain  to  fly. 
15* 


182  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

There  was  blasting  glance  of  mockery  there, 
There  was  a  cairn,  contemptuous,  biting  sneer 
For  ever  on  his  lip,  which  made  men  fear, 
And  fearing  shun  him,  as  a  bird  will  shun 
A  gilded  bait,  though  glittering  in  the  sun; 
But  still  the  mask  of  friendship  he  could  wear, 
The  smile,  the  warm  professions  all  were  there ; 
Let  him  who  trusts  to  these  alone — beware ! 
A  lurking  devil  may  be  crouching  there. 
Shame  on  mankind  that  they  will  stoop  to  use 
Wiles  which  the  imps  of  darkness  would  refuse. 
Henceforth  let  friendship  drop  her  robes  of  light, 
And  following  desolation's  blasting  flight 


There  paced  the  Pirate  Chief  with  giant  stride, 

Deep  chorus  keeping  to  the  Mexic  tide  ; 

His  sable  plumes  were  hov'ring  o'er  his  brow, 

As  if  to  hide  the  depth  of  thought  below. 

He  paus'd — 't  was  but  the  dashing  of  the  spray — 

Again  ! — 't  was  but  the  night-watch  on  his  way. 

He  only  mutter'd,  gnashed  his  teeth  and  smil'd, 

Fit  mirth  were  that,  so  ghastly  and  so  wild, 

To  grace  a  Pirate  Chieftain's  scornful  lip, 

'Twas  like  St.  Helmo's  night-fire  o'er  the  deep. 

The  beacon  blaze  is  burning  on  the  shore, 

But  burns  it  not  more  dimly  than  before? 

Perchance  the  drowsy  sentinel  is  sleeping, 

His  weary  vigils  negligently  keeping. 

So  thought  the  Chief,  but  still  his  wary  eye 

Was  fix'd  intently  between  earth  and  sky, 

As  if  its  quick  keen  glance  would  light  the  flame, 

And  blast  the  sleeper  with  remorse  and  shame. 

He  starts  —  suspicion  flashes  on  his  brain  — 

He  grasps  his  dagger  —  by  St.  Mark  —  again  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  183 

His  bugle  brightly  glittered  on  his  breast ; 
His  lip  the  gilded  bauble  gently  press'd  — 
One  breath,  one  sigh,  and  rock  and  hill  and  sea, 
Will  echo  back  the  warlike  minstrelsy. 
The  figure  which  had  slowly  pass'd  between 
Himself  and  yonder  blaze,  sank  where  't  was  seen, 
As  tho'  the  earth  had  gaped  with  sudden  yawn, 
And  drank  both  fire  and  form  in  silence  down; 
The  beacon  was  extinguish'd,  rock  and  tree 
And  beetling  cliff,  and  wildly  foaming  sea 
Were  hid  in  darkness,  for  the  deep  red  light 
Which  faintly  sketched  them  on  the  brow  of  night 
Was  dim,  as  was  the  moon's  pale  tremulous  glow, 
For  tempest-clouds  were  rallying  round  her  brow; 


The  sound  of  a  footstep  is  on  the  shore. 

It  dies  away  in  the  surge's  roar ; 

It  is  heard  again  as  the  angry  spray 

Rolls  back  and  foams  its  shame  away; 

And  shrill  and  clear  was  the  call  of  alarm, 

'T  was  like  the  breaking  of  spell  or  charm ; 

It  scream'd  o'er  the  dark  wave,  it  rose  to  the  hill, 

And  the  answering  echoes  re-echoed  it  still. 

A  rushing  sound  as  of  coming  waves, 

A  glittering  band  as  if  burst  from  their  graves, 

Are  the  answers  which  wake  at  the  bidding  clear 

Of  him,  the  Lord  of  the  Isle  of  Fear. 

But  scarce  had  the  summons  in  silence  died, 

When  the  foot  which  had  waked  the  tumult  wide, 

Was  pressing  the  sand  where  it  yielding  gave 

To  the  lightest  tread  as  't  was  washed  by  the  wave ; 

By  the  side  of  the  Pirate,  with  outstretch'd  hand, 

The  bold  intruder  look'd  round  on  the  band ; 


184  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

But  none  saw  the  face  of  that  being  save  he  ; 
In  wonder  he  gazed  —  in  his  eye  you  might  see 
Surprise,  and  shame,  and  a  fiend-like  gleam, 
Which  whisper'd  of  more  than  fear  might  dream  ; 
And  is  it  for  this  —  for  a  woman  like  thee? 
He  angrily  mutter'd  and  turn'd  to  the  sea  — 
And  is  it  for  this  I  have  sounded  the  call 
Whose  notes  may  never  unanswer'd  fall ; 
Whose  lowest  tone  is  the  knell  of  more 
Than  can  crowd  at  once  upon  Hell's  broad  shore  ? 
And  is  it  for  this,  I  must  idly  stand 
To  trace  the  wave  with  my  sword  on  the  strand  1 
Speak ! — tell  me — or  now  by  the  blood  on  its  blade, 
I  will  give  to  that  pale  cheek  a  deadlier  shade. 
The  beacon  !  the  beacon  —  she  turn'd  to  the  spot, 
Arid  pointed  the  chief  where  the  light  was  not ; 
The  murmur  ran  thro'  the  waiting  crowd, 
It  was  loud  at  first  but  it  grew  more  loud, 
Till  the  Beacon,  the  Beacon  —  rang  on  to  the  sky, 
But  its  light  was  extinguish'd,  no  blaze  met  the  eye; 
Thus  much  for  the  moment  —  thy  honour  is  clear, 
If  it  suffers  then  look  for  thy  recompense  here ; 
And  she  threw  back  her  mantle  and  gave  to  the  light 
Which  glared  from  the  torches  all  flamingly  bright 
A  form  which  e'en  Maritorne  mark'd  not  unmoved, 
But  t'  was  one  which  he  did  not,  nor  ever  had  loved 
There  are  spies  who  are  waiting  in  ambush  for  thee 
I  mark'd  out  the  cavern  — 't  was  near  to  the  sea  ; 
They  are  few,  they  are  bold,  they  are  guided  by  one 
Who  has  sworn  ere  the  dawn  of  another  day's  sun 
To  lead  thee  in  triumph,  unwounded,  unharm'd, 
To  yonder  proud  city  all  chain'd  and  unarm'd  ; 
This  swears  he,  by  all  that  is  sacred  to  do, 
1  heard  it,  and  hasten'd  thus  breathless  to  you. 
For  pardon  I  sue  not,  O  punish  my  crime  ! 
Here,  here  is  my  bosom,  and  now  is  the  time!  — 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  185 

The  last  moment  beheld  me  imploring  for  breath, 
Now  'tis  not  worth  asking — I  sue  but  for  death 
The  ocean  was  roaring  too  loudly  to  hear 
The  words  she  was  speaking,  the  Chief  bent  his  ear; 
His  dark  plume  was  resting  half  fearfully  there, 
Upon  the  white  brow  of  the  beautiful  Clare  ; 
As  a  being  all  guilty  and  trembling  would  rest 
Self-accused,  self-condemn'd  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 
And  he,  its  wild  wearer,  how  heard  he  the  tale? 
His  eye  flash'd  the  darker,  his  lip  grew  more  pale; 
But  when  it  was  finish'd  and  Clara  knelt  down, 
Where,  where  was  his  anger,  and  where  was   his 

frown  ? 

On  her  forehead  he  printed  a  passionate  kiss — 
Oh  Clara  forgive  me — remember  not  this, 
But  forget  not  that  thou,  and  thou  only,  shalt  know 
The  cause  of  my  madness,  my  guilt,  and  my  woe. 
If  I  fall,  thou  wilt  read  it  in  letters  of  blood 
'Neath  the  stone,  near  the  rock,  where  the  beacon- 
light  glow'd ; 

If  I  live — and  he  hastily  bowed  himself— then — 
The  Fiend  and  the  pirate  were  masters  again. 

*         *         *         *  •        #         *         #          * 
*******          * 

A  light  is  on  the  waters,  and  the  dip 

Of  distant  oars  is  heard  from  steep  to  steep ; 

The  hum  of  voices  float  upon  the  air, 

Soft,  yet  distinct,  tho'  distant,  full  and  clear. 

Come  they  to  Barritaria's  Isle  as  midnight  foes  ? 

'Tis  well! — the  world  but  roughly  with  them  goes. 

Come  they  to  Barritaria's  Isle  to  join 

Their  traitor  arms,  proud  Maritorne,  with  thine  ? 


186  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Oh,  better  had  they  never  left  yon  shore, 

To  which  they  may  return  again  no  more. 

Fools  ! — think  they  he  is  bleeding  in  a  strife 

Where  every  drop  writes  guilt  upon  his  life 

For  gold,  for  fame,  for  power,  for  aught  on  earth 

Which  vulgar  minds  might  think  were  richly  worth 

A  life  of  bloodshed  and  dishonour?   No ! 

They  read  not  right,  who  read  yon  pirate  so; 

The  plash  of  troubled  waters,  and  the  sound 

Of  moving  vessels  grating  o'er  the  ground, 

The  quick  low  hum  of  voices,  the  faint  gush 

Of  light  waves  gurgling  as  with  sudden  rush 

They  feebly  kiss'd  the  bark,  then  sunk  away, 

As  half-repenting  them  such  welcome  gay, 

Were  caught  perchance,  by  some  lone  fisher's  ear, 

Who  plied  his  line,  or  net  at  midnight  here; 

Perhaps  he  started  from  his  drowsy  mood, 

And  toss'd  his  bait  still  further  down  the  flood ; 

But  be  that  as  it  may,  't  was  heard  no  more, 

And  list'ning  silence  hover'd  o'er  the  shore. 

And  yonder  fire  the  battle  sign 'is  beaming, 

Far  o'er  the  dusky  waters  redly  streaming, 

The  shadow  of  the  Pirate-ship  lies  there, 

Its  banners  feebly  dancing  in  the  air ; 

Its  broad  sails  veering  idly  to  and  fro, 

Now  glitt'ring  'neath  the  full  moon's  silver  glow, 

Now  black'ning  in  the  shade  of  night's  dull  frown, 

'T  was  like  its  chief,  in  silence  and  alone, 

Gazing  upon  the  shadow  which  it  cast 

O'er  ev'ry  rippling  wave  which  gently  pass'd. 

And  such  had  been  his  joyless,  gloomy  lot, 

Forgetting  all  mankind,  by  all  forgot, 

Save  that  accursed  one  whose  blasting  eye 

Was  glaring  on  him, — 'twas  in  vain  to  fly 

While  vengeance  whisper'd  curses  in  his  ear, 

A.nd  thought,  the  demon  thought  receiv'd  them  there 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  187 

But  it  had  ever  been  his  lot  to  throw 

O'er  those  who  pass'd  him,  shades  of  gloom  and  woe  ; 

His  love  for  Laura  had  been  deeply  curs'd, 

Hatred's  black  phial  o'er  his  brow  had  burst ; 

He  felt  himself  detested,  and  he  knew 

That  she  whom  he  adored  abhorr'd  him  too. 

But  oh  the  hapless,  the  ill-fated  one, 

She  who  could  love  him  for  himself  alone, 

Love  him,  with  all  his  crimes  upon  his  head, 

Love,  when  the  crowd  with  detestation  fled ; — 

A  deep  dark  shade,  a  wild,  a  with'ring  blast 

Fell  o'er  her  destiny ;  the  die  was  cast — 

She  was  a  wretched  one,  a  sweet  flower  faded, 

Whose   wand'ring    tendrils   round   the    night-shade 

braided, 

Clung  to  its  baleful  breast — hung  drooping  there, 
Self-sacrificed,  it  drank  the  poisoned  air 
And  with'ring     *********** 

[Unfinished;] 


AMERICA. 

(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

And  this  was  once  the  realm  of  nature,  where 

Wild  as  the  wind,  tho'  exquisitely  fair, 

She  breath'd  the  mountain  breeze,  or  bow'd  to  kiss 

The  dimpling  waters  with  unbounded  bliss. 

Here  in  this  Paradise  of  earth,  where  first 

Wild  mountain  Liberty  began  to  burst, 

Once  Nature's  temple  rose  in  simple  grace, 

The  hill  her  throne,  the  world  her  dwelling-place. 

And  where  are  now  her  lakes  so  still  and  lone, 

Her  thousand  streams  with  bending  shrubs  o'ergrown? 


188  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Where  her  dark  cat'racts  tumbling  from  on  high, 
With  rainbow  arch  aspiring  to  the  sky? 
Her  tow'ring  pines  with  fadeless  wreaths  entwin'd, 
Her  waving  alders  streaming  to  the  wind  ? 
Nor  these  alone, — her  own, — her  fav'rite  child, 
All  fire  ;  all  feeling ;  man  untaught  and  wild  ; 
Where  can  the  lost,  lone  son  of  nature  stray? 
For  art's  high  car  is  rolling  on  its  way; 
A  wand'rer  of  the  world,  he  flies  to  drown 
The  thoughts  of  days  gone  by  and  pleasures  flown, 
In  the  deep  draught,  whose  dregs  are  death  and  WOP 
With  slavery's  iron  chain  conceal'd  below. 
Once  thro'  the  tangled  wood,  with  noiseless  tread 
And  throbbing  heart,  the  lurking  warrior  sped, 
Aim'd  his  sure  weapon,  won  the  prize,  and  turn'd 
While  his  high  heart  with  wild  ambition  burn'd, 
With  song  and  war-whoop  to  his  native  tree, 
There  on  its  bark  to  carve  the  victory. 
His  all  of  learning  did  that  act  comprise, 
But  still  in  nature's  volume  doubly  wise. 

The  wayward  stream  which  once  with  idle  bound, 
Whirl'd  on  resistless  in  its  foaming  round, 
Now  curb'd  by  art  flows  on,  a  wat'ry  chain 
Linking  the  snow-capp'd  mountains  to  the  main. 
Where  once  the  alder  in  luxuriance  grew, 
Or  the  tall  pine  its  towering  branches  threw 
Abroad  to  Heaven,  with  dark  and  haughty  brow, 
There  mark  the  realms  of  plenty  smiling  now; 
There  the  full  sheaf  of  Ceres  richly  glows, 
And  Plenty's  fountain  blesses  as  it  flows ; 
And  man,  a  brute  when  left  to  wander  wild, 
A  reckless  creature,  nature's  lawless  child, 
What  boundless  streams  of  knowledge  rolling  now 
From  the  full  hand  of  art  around  him  flow  ! 
Improvement  strides  the  surge,  while  from  afar, 
Learning  rolls  onward  in  her  silver  car; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  189 

Freedom  unfurls  her  banner  o'er  his  head, 
While  peace  sleeps  sweetly  on  her  native  bed. 

The  muse  arises  from  the  wild  wood  glen, 
And  chants  her  sweet  and  hallow'd  song  again, 
As  in  those  halcyon  days,  which  bards  have  sung, 
When  hope  was  blushing,  and  when  life  was  young 
Thus  shall  she  rise,  and  thus  her  sons  shall  rear 
Her  sacred  temple  here,  and  only  here, 
While  Percival,  her  lov'd  and  chosen  priest, 
For  ever  blessing,  tho'  himself  unblest, 
Shall  fan  the  fire  that  blazes  at  her  shrine, 
And  charm  the  ear  with  numbers  half  divine. 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  COUSIN. 

She  gave  me  a  flow'ret,  —  and  oh  !  it  was  sweet ! 
'T  was  a  pea,  in  full  bloom,  with  its  dark  crimson 

leaf,  . 

And  I  said  in  my  heart,  this  shall  be  thy  retreat ! 
'T  is  one  "  sacred  to  Friendship"  —  a  stranger  to 
grief. 

In  my  bosom  I  placed  it,  —  't  is  withered  and  gone ! 

All  its  freshness,  its  beauty,  its  fragrance  had  fled! 
And  in  sorrow  I  sigh'd,  —  am  I  thus  left  alone? 

Is  the  gift  which  I  cherish'd  quite  faded  and  dead  ? 

It  has  wither'd  !  but  she  who  presented  it  blooms, 

Still  fresh  and  unfading,  in  memory  here! 
And  through  life  shall  here  flourish,  'mid  danger  and 

storms, 

As  sweet  as  the  flower,  though  more  lasting  and 
fair! 
16 


IPO  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

MODESTY. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

There  is  a  sweet,  tho'  humble  flower, 
Which  grows  in  nature's  wildest  bed ; 

It  blossoms  in  the  lonely  bower, 
But  withers  'neath  the  gazer's  tread. 

'Tis  rear'd  alone,  far,  far  away 

From  the  wild  noxious  weeds  of  death, 

Around  its  brow  the  sunbeams  play, 
The  evening  dew-drop  is  its  wreath. 

'T  is  Modesty  ;  't  is  nature's  child  ; 

The  loveliest,  sweetest,  meekest  flower 
That  ever  blossom'd  in  the  wild, 

Or  trembled  'neath  the  evening  shower. 

JT  is  Modesty ;  so  pure,  so  fair, 

That  woman's  witch'ries  lovelier  grow, 

When  that  sweet  flower  is  blooming  there 
The  brightest  beauty  of  her  brow. 

A   VIEW   OF   DEATH. 

When  bending  o'er  the  brink  of  life, 
My  trembling  soul  shall  stand, 

Waiting  to  pass  death's  awful  flood, 
Great  God  !  at  thy  command  • 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  191 

When  weeping  friends  surround  my  bed, 

To  close  my  sightless  eyes, 
When  shattered  by  the  weight  of  years 

This  broken  body  lies; 

When  every  long-lov'd  scene  of  life 

Stands  ready  to  depart, 
When  the  last  sigh  which  shakes  this  frame 

Shall  rend  this  bursting  heart ; 

Oh  thou  great  source  of  joy  supreme, 

Whose  arm  alone  can  save, 
Dispel  the  darkness  that  surrounds 

The  entrance  to  the  grave. 

Lay  thy  supporting  gentle  hand 

Beneath  my  sinking  head, 
And  with  a  ray  of  love  divine, 

Illume  my  dying  bed. 

Leaning  on  thy  dear  faithful  breast, 

I  would  resign  my  breath, 
And  in  thy  loved  embraces  lose 

The  bitterness  of  death. 


ROB  ROY'S  REPLY  TO  FRANCIS  OSBAL- 
DISTONE. 

The  heather  I  trod  while  breathing  on  earth, 
Must  bloom  o'er  my  grave  in  the  land  of  my  birth  ; 
My  warm  heart  would   shrink  like  the  fern  in  the 

frost, 
If  the  tops  of  my  hills  to  my  dim  eye  were  *ost. 


192  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

TO   A   LADY 

RECOVERING  FROM  SICKNESS. 
(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

There  is  a  charm  in  the  pallid  cheek; 
A  charm  which  the  tongue  can  never  speak, 
When  the  hand  of  sickness  has  wither'd  awhile, 
The  rose  which  had  bloom'd  in  the  rays  of  a  smile. 

There  is  a  charm  in  the  heavy  eye, 
When  the  tear  of  sorrow  is  passing  hy, 
Like  a  summer  shower  o'er  yon  vault  of  blue, 
Or  the  violet  trembling  'neath  drops  of  dew. 

It  spreads  around  a  shade  as  light 
As  daylight  blending  with  the  night; 
Or  'tis  like  the  tints  of  an  evening  sky, 
And  soft  as  the  breathing  of  sorrow's  sigh. 


THE   VISION. 

(Wntten  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

'Twas  evening — all  was  calm  and  silent,  save 
The  low  hoarse  dashing  of  the  distant  wave; 
The  whip-poor-will  had  clos'd  his  pensive  lay, 
Which  sweetly  mourned  the  sun's  declining  ray ; 
Tired  of  a  world  surcharged  with  pain  and  woe, 
Weary  of  heartless  forms  and  all  below, 


POETICAL   REMAINS.  193 

Broken  each  tie,  bereft  of  every  friend, 
Whose  sympathy  might  consolation  lend, 
And  musing  on  each  vain  and  earthly  toy, 
Walk'd  the  once  gay  and  still  brave'Oleroy. 
Thus  lost  in  thought,  unconsciously  he  stray'd, 
When  a  dark  forest  wild  around  him  laid. 
In  vain  he  tried  the  beaten  path  to  gain, 
He  "sought  it  earnestly,  but  sought  in  vain ; 
At  length  o'ercome,  he  sunk  upon  the  ground, 
Where  the  dark  ivy  twined  its  branches  round  ; 
Sudden  there  rose  upon  his  wond'ring  ear, 
Notes  which  e'en  angels  might  delighted- hear. 
Now  low  they  murmur,  now  majestic  rise, 
As  though  "  some  spirit  banished  from  the  skies" 
Had  there  repair'd  to  tune  the  mournful  lay, 
"  And  chase  the  sorrows  of  his  soul  away." 
They  ceas'd  —  when  lo  !  a  brilliant  dazzling  light 
Illumed  the  wood  and  chas'd  the  shades  of  night; 
He  raised  his  head,  there  stood  near  Oleroy, 
The  beauteous  figure  of  a  smiling  boy; 
Across  his  shoulder  hung  an  ivory  horn, 
With  jewels  glittering  like  the  rays  of  morn; 
In  his  white  hand  he  held  the  tuneful  lyre, 
And  in  his  eyes  there  beam'd  a  heavenly  fire ; 
Approaching  Oleroy,  he  smiling  cried, 

You  hate  the  world  and  all  its  charms  deride, 
You  hate  the  world  and  all  it  doth  contain, 
Condemn  each  joy,  and  call  each  pleasure  pain  ; 
Then  come,  he  sweetly  cried,  come  follow  me, 
Another  world  thy  sorrowing  eyes  shall  see. 

No  sooner  said  than  swift  the  smiling  boy 
Led  from  the  bower  the  wond'ring  Oleroy. 
Beneath  a  tree  three  sylph-like  forms  recfine, 
Each  form  was  beauteous,  and  each  face  benign ; 
16* 


194  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Beside  them  stood  a  chariot  dazzling  bright, 
Yoked  with  two  beauteous  swans  of  purest  white; 
They  mount  the  chariot,  and  ascend  on  high, 
They  bend  the  lash,  on  winged  winds  they  fly, 
Above  the  spacious  globe  they  stretch  their  flight, 
That  globe  seem'd  now  but  as  a  cloud  of  night. 
Swift  towards  the  moon  the  white  swans  bend  their 

way, 

And  a  new  world  its  treasures  doth  display. 
They  halt;  before  them  rocks  and  hills  are  spread, 
And  birds,  and  beasts,  which  at  their  footsteps  fled. 
Another  moon  emits  a  softer  ray, 
And  other  moon-beams  on  the  waters  play : 
They  wander  on,  and  reach  a  darksome  cave 
Against  whose  side  loud  roars  the  dashing  wave: 
These  words  upon  its  rugged  front  appear, 
4  What  in  your  world  is  lost  is  treasured  here." 
They  enter; — round  upon  the  floor  are  strewn, 
The  ivory  sceptre,  and  the  glittering  crown  ; 
Unnumbered  hopes  there  flutter'd  on  the  wing, 
There  were  the  lays  discarded  lovers  sing ; 
There  fame  her  trumpet  blew,  long,  loud,  and  clear, 
Worlds  tremble  as  the  deafning  notes  they  hear; 
There  brooded  riches  o'er  his  lifeless  heap, 
There  were  the  tears  which  misery's  children  weep. 
There  were  posthumous  alms,  and  misspent  time 
Lost  in  a  jingling  mass  of  foolish  rhyme. 
There  was  the  conscience  of  the  miser ; — there 
The  tears  of  love, — the  pity  of  the  fair; 
There,  pointing,  cried  the  sylph-like  smiling  boy, 
There  's  the  content  which  fled  you,  Oleroy ! 
Regain  it  if  you  can ; — then  far  away, 
And  reach  your  world  before  the  dawn  of  day. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  195 


ON  SEEING  AT  A  CONCERT,  THE  PUBLIC 
PERFORMANCE  OF  A  FEMALE  DWARF. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Helpless,  unprotected,  weary, 

Toss'd  upon  the  world's  wide  sea, 

Borne  from  those  I  love  most  dearly, 
Say  —  dost  thou  not  feel  for  me? 

Who  that  hath  shrunk  'neath  nature's  frown 
Would  court  false  fortune's  fickle  smile? 

Oh,  who  would  wander  thus  alone, 
Reckless  alike  of  care  or  toil? 

Who  would,  for  fading  pleasure,  brave 
The  sea  of  troubles,  dark  and  deep? 

For  lo !  the  gems  which  deck  the  wave 
Vanish,  and  "leave  the  wretch  to  weep." 

'T  was  not  for  fortune's  smile  of  light, 
Which  beams  but  to  destroy  for  ever; 

'T  was  not  for  pleasure's  bubbles  bright, 
Which  dazzle  still,  deluding  ever : 

Oft  have  I  falter'd  when  alone 

Before  the  crowd  I  sung  my  lay, 
But  ah,  a  father's  feeble  moan 

Rung  in  my  ears,  I  dared  not  stay. 

Oh,  I  have  borne  pride's  scornful  look, 

And  burning  taunts  from  slander's  tongue ; 

Yet  more  of  malice  I  could  brook, 
E'en  though  my  heart  with  grief  was  wrung. 


190  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Adieu!  a  long  —  a  last  adieu  — 

Once  more  I  launch  upon  life's  sea  ; 

But  still  shall  memory  turn  to  you, 
For,  stranger,  you  have  felt  for  me. 


ON  SEEING  A  YOUNG  LADY  AT  HER 
DEVOTIONS. 

(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

She  knelt,  and  her  dark  blue  eye  was  rais'd, 

A  sacred  fire  in  its  bright  beam  blaz'd, 

And  it  spread  o'er  her  cold  pale  cheek  a  light 

So  pure,  so  sacred,  so  clear  and  so  bright, 

That  Parian  marble,  tho'  glittering  fair 

'Neath  the  moon's  pale  beam,  or  the  sun's  broad  glare, 

Were  far  Jess  sweet,  tho'  more  dazzlingly  bright, 

Than  that  cold  cheek  array'd  in  its  halo  of  light. 

Oh  !  I  love  not  the  dark  rosy  hue  of  the  sky 

When  the  bright  blush  of  morn  mantles  deeply  and 

high, 

But  my  fond  soul  adores  the  pure  author  of  light, 
The  more  when  she  looks  on  the  broad  brow  of  night; 
On  myriads  of  stars  glitt'ring  far  thro'  the  sky, 
Like  the  bright  eyes  of  saints  looking  down  from  on 

high  _ 

From  their  garden  of  Paradise,  blooming  in  Heaven, 
On  the  scene  sleeping  sweet  'neath  the  calm  smile 

of  even. 

I  love  not  the  cheek  which  speaks  slumber  unbroken, 
That  heart  hath  ne'er  sigh'd  o'er  hope's  fast  fading 
token ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  197 

That  bosom  ne'er  throbbed  with  half-fearful  delight 
When  it  thought  on  its  home  in  the  regions  of  light, 
Or  trembled  and  wept  as  with  fancy's  dear  eye 
It  gaz'd  on  the  beautiful  gates  of  the  sky, 
And  the  angels  which  watch  at  their  portals  of  light 
All  peaceful,  all  sacred,  all  pure,  and  all  bright : 
But  I  Jove  that  pale  cheek  as  it  bends  in  devotion, 
Like  a  star  sinking  down  on  the  breast  of  the  ocean. 


ALONZO   AND   IMANEL. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

As  he  spoke,  he  beheld  on  the- sea-beaten  strand 

A  form,  'twas  so  airy,  so  light, 
He  could  almost  have  sworn  by  the  faith  of  his  land 
That  an  angel  was  wand'ring  'mid  rocks  and  thro' 
sand, 

'Neath  the  moon-beam  so  fitfully  bright. 

He  paus'd,  as  the  bittern  scream'd  loud  o'er  his  head, 

One  moment  he  paus'd  on  the  shore, 
To  mark  the  wild  wave  as  it  dash'd  from  its  bed, 
Tossing  high  the  white  spray  from  its  foam-spangled 
head, 

With  a  fitful  and  deafening  roar. 

He  caught  the  wild  notes  of  a  song,  on  the  wind, 

Ere  the  tempest-god  bore  them  away, 
And  they  told  of  a  tortured  and  desperate  mind, 
To  despair's  dark  shadows  for  ever  resign'd, 
Of  a  heart,  once  hope-lighted  and  gay. 


193  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON 

The  bright  moon  was  hid  in  the  breast  of  the  storm, 

And  darkness  and  terror  drew  round, 
Yet  still  he  could  mark  her  light  fanciful  form, 
As  she  roam'd  round  the  wild  rocks,  devoid  of  alarm, 
Tho'  the  fiend  of  the  whirlwind  frown'd. 

Oh  tell  me,  he  cried,  what  spirit  so  light, 

So  beautiful  e'en  in  despair, 
Is  wand'ring  alone  'mid  the  storm  of  the  night, 
When  to  guide  her  no  star  in  the  heaven  is  bright, 

No  gleam  save  the  lightning's  red  glare ! 

'T  is  young  Imanel,  answered  his  guide  with  a  sigh, 

The  rich,  the  belov'd  and  the  gay, 
Who  is  doom'd  from  her  friends  and  her  country  to  fly, 
For  she  lov'd,  and  she  wedded  Alonzo  the  spy, 

Who  has  left  her  and  fled  far  away. 

Alonzo  the  spy !  —  and  he  darted  away 

With  the  speed  of  a  shooting  star, 
Nor  heeded  the  call  of  his  guide  to  stay, 
But  toward  the  poor  lone  one  he  bounded  away, 

She  had  fled  to  the  sea-beach  afar. 

One  glance  of  the  forked  lightning's  glare 
Play'd  bright  round  the  fair  one's  face, 
And  it  beam'd  on  Alonzo,  for  he  was  there, 
And  it  beam'd  on  his  bride,  on  his  Imanel  dear, 
Clasp'd  at  length  in  his  joyful  embrace. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


TO   MARGARET'S   EYE. 


(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Oh !  I  have  seen  the  blush  of  morn, 
And  I  have  seen  the  evening  sky; 

But  ah  !  they  faded  when  I  gaz'd 

On  the  bright  heaven  of  Margaret's  eye. 

I  've  seen  the  Queen  of  evening  ride 
Majestic,  'mid  the  clouds  on  high  ; 

But  e'en  Diana  in  her  pride 

Was  dim,  near  Margaret's  brilliant  eye. 

I  've  seen  the  azure  vault  of  heaven, 
I've  seen  the  star-bespangled  sky; 

But  oh  !  I  would  the  whole  have  given 
For  one  sweet  glance  from  Margaret's  eye. 

I  've  seen  the  dew  upon  the  rose, 
It  trembled  'neath  the  zephyr's  sigh  ; 

But  oh  !  the  tear  which  nature  shed 
Was  dim  near  that  in  Margaret's  eye. 


TO   A   YOUNG   LADY, 

WHOSE  MOTHER  WAS  INSANE  FROM  HER  BIRTH. 
(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

And  thou  hast  never,  never  known 
A  mother's  love,  a  mother's  care ! 

Hast  wept,  and  sigh'd,  and  smil'd  alone, 
Unblest  by  e'en  a  mother's  prayer. 


200  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON, 

Oh,  if  sad  sorrow's  blighting  hand 
Hath  e'er  an  arrow,  it  is  this; 

To  feel  that  phrenzy's  burning  brand 
Hath  wip'd  away  a  mother's  kiss; 

To  mark  the  gulf,  the  starless  wave, 
Which  rolls  between  thee  and  her  love, 

To  feel  that  better  were  a  grave, 
A  grave  beneath — a  home  above; 

Than  thus  that  she  should  linger  on, 
In  dreamless,  sunless  solitude; 

Like  some  bright  ruin'd  shrine,  where  one 
All  loveliness  and  truth  hath  stood. 

And  he,  her  love,  her  life,  her  light, 
How  burst  the  storm  o'er  him  ! 

Oh,  darker  than  Egyptian  night, 
*T  was  one  wild  troubled  dream ! 

To  gaze  upon  that  eye,  whose  beam 
Was  love,  and  life,  and  light, 

To  mark  its  wild  and  wandering  gleam 
Which  dazzles  but  to  blight; 

To  turn  in  anguish  and  despair 

* From  those  wild  notes  of  sadness, 

And  feel  that  there  was  darkness  there, 
The  midnight  mist  of  madness  ; 

To  start  beneath  the  thrilling  swell 
Of  notes  still  sweet,  tho'  wasted, 

To  mark  the  idol  lov'd  too  well, 
In  all  its  beauty  blasted; 

Oh !  it  were  better  far  to  kneel, 
In  darkly  brooding  anguish, 

Upon  the  graves  of  those  we  love, 
Than  thus  to  see  them  languish. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


A  SONG. 
Tune,  Mrs.  Robinson's  Farewell 

(Written  in  her  thirteenth  year.) 

Tell  me  not  of  joys  departed, 
Or  of  childhood's  happy  hour ! 

When  unconsciously  I  sported, 
Fresh  as  morning's  dewy  flower ! 

Tell  me  not  of  fair  hopes  blasted, 

Or  of  unrequited  love! 
Tell  me  not  of  fortune  wasted, 

Or  the  web  which  Fate  hath  wove  i 

One  fond  wish  I  long  have  cherish'd, 
I  have  twined  it  round  my  heart ! 

While  all  other  hopes  have  perish'd, 
I  with  that  could  never  part. 

On  life's  troubled,  stormy  ocean 
That  bright  star  still  shone  serene ! 

To  that  star,  my  heart's  devotion 
Rose,  at  morning,  and  at  e'en  ! 

And  the  hope  that  led  me  onward, 
Like  a  beacon  shining  bright, 

Was  —  that  when  this  form  had  moulder'd 
I  might  wake  to  realms  of  light ! 

Wake  to  bliss  —  that  changes  never ! 

Wake  no  more  to  hope  or  fear ! 
Wake  to  joys  that  bloom  for  ever ! 

Wither'd  by  no  sigh,  no  tear  I 

17 


202  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

A    SONG. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Life  is  but  a  troubled  ocean, 
Hope  a  meteor,  love  a  flower 

Which  blossoms  in  the  morning  beam, 
And  withers  with  the  evening  hour. 

Ambition  is  a  dizzy  height, 

And  glory,  but  a  lightning  gleam ; 

Fame  is  a  bubble,  dazzling  bright, 

Which  fairest  shines  in  fortune's  beam. 

When  clouds  and  darkness  veil  the  skies, 
And  sorrow's  blast  blows  loud  and  chill, 

Friendship  shall  like  a  rainbow  rise, 
And  softly  whisper  —  peace,  be  stu.. 


TWILIGHT. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

How  sweet  the  hour  when  daylight  blends 

With  the  pensive  shadows  on  evening's  breast ; 

And  dear  to  the  heart  is  the  pleasure  it  lends, 
'T  is  like  the  departure  of  saints  to  their  rest. 

Oh,  't  is  sweet,  Saranac,  on  thy  loved  banks  to  stray, 
To  watch  the  last  day-beam  dance  light  on  thy 
wave, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  IQi 

To  mark  the  white  skiff  as  it  skims  o'er  the  bay, 
Or  heedlessly  bounds  o'er  the  warrior's  grave. 

Oh,  't  is  sweet  to  a  heart  unentangled  and  light, 
When  with  hope's  brilliant  prospects  the  fancy  is 
blest, 

To  pause  'mid  its  day-dreams  so  witchingly  bright, 
And  mark  the  last  sunbeams,  while  sinking  to  rest. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  CAROLINE. 

(Written  in  her  twelfth  year.) 

Star  of  England  !  Brunswick's  pride ! 

Thou  hast  suffer'd,  droop'd,  and  died  ! 

Adversity,  with  piercing  eye, 

Bade  all  her  arrows  round  thee  fly ; 

She  marked  thee  from  thy  cradle-bed, 

And  plaited  thorns  around  thy  head  !  — 

As  the  moon,  whom  sable  clouds 

Now  brightly  shows  —  now  darkly  shrouds  — 

So  envy,  with  a  serpent's  eye, 

And  slander's  tongue  of  blackest  dye, 

On  thy  pure  name  aspersions  cast,  - 

And  triumph'd  o'er  thy  fame  at  last ! 

But  each  dark  tale  of  guilt  and  shame 

Shall  darker  fly  to  whence  it  came  ! 

A  stranger  in  a  foreign  land, 

Oppress'd  beneath  a  tyrant's  hand, 

She  drank  the  bitter  cup  of  woe, 

And  read  Fate's  black'ning  volume  through ! 

The  last,  the  bitterest  drop  was  drank, 

The  volume  closed  —  and  all  was  blank  ! 


204  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

ON  THE 

DEATH  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  MRS.  ***** 

I  saw  her  when  life's  tide  was  high, 

When  youth  was  hov'ring  o'er  her  brow, 

When  joy  was  dancing  in  her  eye, 

And  her  cheek  blush'd  hope's  crimson  glow. 

I  saw  her  'mid  a  fairy  throng, 
She  seem'd  the  gayest  of  the  gay  ; 

I  saw  her  lightly  glide  along, 

'Neath  beauty's  smile,  and  pleasure's  lay. 

I  saw  her  in  her  bridal  robe, 

The  blush  of  joy  was  mounting  high ; 

I  mark'd  her  bosom's  heaving  throb, 
I  mark'd  her  dark  and  downcast  eye. 

I  saw  her  when  a  mother's  love, 
Ask'd  at  her  hand  a  mother's  care ; 

She  look'd  an  angel  from  above, 
Hov'ring  round  a  cherub  fair. 

I  saw  her  not  till  cold  and  pale, 
She  slumb.er'd  on  death's  icy  arm ; 

The  rose  had  faded  on  her  cheek, 
Her  lip  had  lost  its  power  to  charm. 

That  eye  was  dim  which  brightly  shone ; 

That  brow  was  cold,  that  heart  was  still 
The  witch'ries  of  that  form  had  flown 

The  lifeless  clay  had  ceas'd  to  feel. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  205 

saw  her  wedded  to  the  grave; 
Her  bridal  robes  were  weeds  of  death ; 
And  o'er  her  pale,  cold  brow,  was  hung 
The  damp  sepulchral  icy  wreath. 


THE  WHITE  MAID  OF  THE  ROCK. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

Loud  'gainst  the  rocks  the  wild  spray  is  dashing, 
Its  snowy  white  foam  o'er  the  waves  rudely  splash 
ing; 

The  woods  echo  round  to  the  bittern's  shrill  screamv 
As  he  dips  his  black  wing  in  the  wave  of  the  stream; 
Now  mournful  and  sad  the  low  murmuring  breeze 
Sighs  lonely  and  dismal  through  hollow  oak  trees. 
The  owl  loudly  hoots,  while  his  lonely  abode 
Serves  to  shelter  the  snake  and  the  poisonous  toad ; 
Lo !  the  black  thunder-cloud  is  spread  over  the  skies, 
And  the  swift-winged  lightning  at  intervals  flies. 
The  streamlet  looks  dark,  and  the  spray  wilder  breaks, 
And  the  alder  leaf  dank,  with  its  silver  drops  shakes ; 
This  dell  and  these  rocks,  this  lone  alder  and  stream, 
With  the  dew-drops  which  dance  in  the  moon's  silver 

beam, 

Are  sacred  to  beings  ethereal  and  light, 
Who  hold  their  dark  orgies  alone  and  at  night. 
Wild,  and  more  wild,  dashed  the  waves  of  the  stream, 
The  White  Maid  of  the  rock  gave  a  shrill  piercing 

scream ; 
Down  headlong  she  plunged  'neath  the  dark  rolling 

wave, 

And  rising,  thus  chanted  a  dirge  to  the  brave. 
17* 


206  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

"  The  raven  croaks  loud  from  her  nest  in  the  rock, 
The  night-owl's  shrill  hooting  resounds  from  the  oak; 
Behold  the  retreat  where  brave  Avenel  is  laid, 
Uncoffin'd,  except  by  his  own  Scottish  plaid ! 
Long  since  has  my  girdle  diminished  to  naught, 
And  the  great  house  of  Avenel  low  has  been  brought ; 
The  star  now  burns  dimly  which  once  brightly  shone, 
And  proud  Avenel's  glory  for  ever  has  flown. 
As  I  sail'd  and  my  white   garments  caught  in  the 

brake, 
'Neath  the  oak,  whose  huge  branches  extend  o'er  the 

lake, 

*  Woe  to  thee !  woe  to  thee  !  Maid  of  the  Rock,' 
Cried  the  night-raven  who  builds  in  the  oak; 

*  Woe  to  thee  !  guardian  spirit  of  Avenel ! 
Where  are  thy  holly-bush,  streamlet  and  dell  ? 
No  longer  thou  sittest  to  watch  and  to  weep, 

Near  the  abbey's  lone  walls,  and  its  turrets  so  steep ! 
Woe  to  thee  !  woe  to  thee  !  Maid  of  the  rock/ 
Cried  the  night-raven  who  builds  in  the  oak ! 
Then  farewell,  great  Av'nel,  thy  proud  race  is  run ! 
The  girdle  has  vanish'd  —  my  task  is  now  done." 
Then  her  long  flowing  tresses  around  her  she  drew, 
And  her  form  'neath  the  wave  of  the  dark  streamlet 
threw. 


THE  WEE  FLOWER  OF  THE  HEATHER. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Thou  pretty  wee  flower,  humble  thing, 
Thou  brightest  jewel  of  the  heath, 

Which  waves  at  zephyr's  lightest  wing, 
And  trembles  at  the  softest  breath ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  '207 

Thou  lovely  bud  of  Scotia's  land, 
Thou  pretty  fragrant  burnie  gem, 

By  whisp'ring  breezes  thou  art  fann'd, 
And  greenest  leaves  entwine  thy  stem. 

No  raging  tempest  beats  thee  down, 

Or  finds  thee  in  thy  safe  retreat ; 
By  no  rough  wint'ry  winds  thou'rt  blown, 

Safe  seated  at  the  dark  rock's  feet 


TO  MY  DEAR  MOTHER  IN  SICKNESS. 

Hang  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow, 

Mourn  not  a  brighter,  happier  day, 
But  touch  the  chord,  and  life's  wild  billow 

Will  shrinking  foam  its  shame  away. 

Then  strike  the  chord  and  raise  the  strain 

Which  brightens  that  dark  clouded  brow ; 
Oh !  beam  one  sunshine  smile  again, 
And  I  '11  forgive  thy  sadness  now. 

Tho'  darkness,  gloom,  and  doubt  surround  thee. 
Thy  bark,  tho'  frail,  shall  safely  ride ; 

The  storm  and  whirlwind  may  rage  round  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  all  their  wrath  abide. 

Hang  not  thy  harp  upon  the  willow 

Which  weeps  o'er  every  passing  wave; 

Tho'  life  is  but  a  restless  pillow, 

There 's  calm  and  peace  beyond  the  grave 


208  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON, 

AN   ACROSTIC. 

(Written  in  her  eleventh  year.) 

THE   MOON. 

Lo !  yonder  rides  the  empress  of  the  night ! 
Unveil'd  she  casts  around  her  silver  light ; 
Cease  not,  fair  orb,  thy  slow  majestic  march, 
Resume  again  thy  seat  in  yon  blue  arch. 
E'en  now,  as  weary  of  the  tedious  way, 
Thy  head  on  ocean's  bosom  thou  dost  lay ; 
In  his  blue  waves  thou  hid'st  thy  shining  face, 
And  gloomy  darkness  takes  its  vacant  place. 

THE   SUN. 

[IN  CONTINUATION.] 

Darting  his  rays  the  sun  now  glorious  rides, 
And  from  his  path  fell  darkness  quick  divides ; 
Vapour  dissolves  and  shrinks  at  his  approach, 
It  dares  not  on  his  blazing  path  encroach ; 
Down  droops  the  flow'ret,  —  and  his  burning  ray 
Scorches  the  workmen  o'er  the  new-mown  hay/ 
Oh  !  lamp  of  Heav'n,  pursue  thy  glorious  course, 
Nor  till  gray  twilight,  aught  abate  thy  force. 


HABAKKUK   III,   6. 

(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

When  Cushan  was  mourning  in  solitude  drear, 
When  the  curtains  of  Midian  trembled  with  fear, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  209 

On  the  wings  of  salvation  thy  chariot  did  fly 
Thou  didst  stride  the  wide  whirlwind  and  come  from 
on  high. 

Earth  shook,  and  before  thee  the  mountains  did  bow ; 
The  voice  of  the  deep  thunder'd  loud  from  below  ; 
Thy  arrows  glanced  bright  as  they  shot  thro'  the  air, 
And  far  gleam'd  the  light  of  thy  glittering  spear ; 
The  bright  orb  of  day  paus'd  in  wonder  on  high, 
And  the  lamp  of  the  night  stood  still  in  the  sky. 


ON  READING  A  FRAGMENT  CALLED  THE 
FLOWER  OF  THE  FOREST. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

Sing  on,  sweetest  songster  the  woodland  can  boast ; 
Sing  on,  for  it  charms,  tho'  it  sorrows  my  breast ; 
The  strains,  tho'  so  mournful,  shall  never  be  lost, 
Till  this  throbbing  bosom  has  murmur'd  to  rest. 

The  sweet  Flower  of  the  Forest  on  memory's  page 
Shall  bloom  undecaying  while  life  lingers  near, 
Unhurt  by  the  storms  which  around  it  shall  rage, 
By  sorrow's  sigh  fann'd,  and  bedew'd  by  a  tear. 


ZANTE. 

(Written  in  her  seventeenth  year.) 

She  stood  alone,  't  was  in  that  hour  of  thought, 
When  days  gone  by,  with  fading  fancies  fraught 


210  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Steal  o'er  the  soul,  and  bear  it  back  awhile, 

Too  sad,  too  heavy,  or  to  weep  or  smile 

O'er  all  life's  sad  variety  of  woe, 

Which  fades  the  cheek,  and  stamps  upon  the  brow 

The  deep  dark  traces  of  its  passage  there, 

In  all  the  clouded  majesty  of  care. 

That  hour  was  twilight ;  and  the  shade  of  night, 

Which  shuts  the  world  and  wickedness  from  sight, 

Was  walking  o'er  the  waters,  while  its  train 

Of  glittering  millions  danced  along  the  main, 

And  Zante,  that  fairy  island  fading  fast, 

Seem'd  first  but  faintly  shadow'd,  till  at  last 

Tower,  minaret,  and  turret,  dimm'd  by  night, 

Shone  darkly  grand,  beneath  Heav'n's  silvery  light. 

And  where  was  she,  the  lone  one,  for  the  sky 
Had  blush'd,  then  faded  slowly  to  her  eye  — 
Had  deepen'd  into  darkness,  till  at  last 
Night's  deep,  broad  pinion  had  before  her  pass'd ; 
And  still  she  linger'd  there,  as  noting  not 
The  lonely  breathlessness  of  that  sad  spot ; 
As  heeding  not  the  hour,  the  dreary  sky, 
Or  aught  that  lay  beneath  her  moveless  eye. 

She  was  a  being  form'd  to  love,  and  blest 
With  lavish  Nature's  richest  loveliness. 
Oh  !  I  have  often  seen,  in  fancy's  eye, 
Beings  too  bright  for  dull  mortality. 
I  've  seen  them  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
I  've  faintly  seen  them,  when  enough  of  light 
And  dim  distinctness  gave  them  to  my  gaze, 
As  forms  of  other  worlds,  or  brighter  days. 

Such  was  lanthe,  though  perhaps  less  bright, 
Less  clearly  bright,  for  mystery  and  night 
Hung  o'er  her —  she  e'en  lovelier  seem'd, 
More  calm,  more  happy,  when  dim  twilight  gleam'd 
Athwart  the  wave,  than  when  the  rude  bright  sun, 
As  though  in  mock'ry,  o'er  her  sad  brow  shone. 


POETICAL   REMAINS.  211 

There  was  a  temple,  which  had  stood,  where  then 
lanthe  stood,  and  old  and  learned  men 
Mused  o'er  its  ruins,  marking  here  and  there 
Some  porch,  some  altar,  or  some  fountain,  where 
In  other  days,  the  towers  of  faith  were  raised, 
Where  victims  bled,  or  sacred  censers  blazed ; 
There  stood  lanthe,  leaning  on  a  shrine 
Which  rose  half  mournfully,  from  'neath  the  vine, 
Which  as  in  seeming  mock'ry  had  o'ergrown 
And  twin'd  its  tendrils  round  its  breast  of  stone; 
Around  the  ruin'd  columns,  shaft  and  step, 
In  undistinguish'd  masses  mould'ring  slept, 
And  little  dreaming  of  the  years  gone  by, 
Ere  tyrant  Time  had  hurl'd  them  from  on  high. 
The  rnoon  emerging  from  the  cloud  more  bright 
The  marble  surface  glitter  d  in  its  light  ; 
lanthe  mark'd  it  —  tears  will  sometimes  steal, 
From  hearts  which  have  perchance  long  ceas'd  to 

feel  — 

She  wept,  and  whether  that  cold  trembling  gleam 
Which  shone  upon  the  column,  where  the  beam 
Fell  on  its  brow,  brought  to  her  bleeding  breast 
Those  gusts  of  sorrow,  grief,  despair,  distress, 
Or  what  it  was  I  know  not — but  she  wept 
O'er  the  wide  ruin  which  around  her  slept ; 
Then  as  if  scorning    *  *  *  * 

****** 

{Unfinished.] 


212  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

THE   YELLOW    FEVER. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

The  sky  is  pure,  the  clouds  are  light, 

The  moonbeams  glitter  cold  and  bright; 

O'er  the  wide  landscape  breathes  no  sigh  ; 

The  sea  reflects  the  star-gemm'd  sky, 

And  every  beam  of  Heav'n's  broad  brow 

Glows  brightly  on  the  world  below. 

But  ah  !  the  wing  of  death  is  spread  ; 

I  hear  the  midnight  murd'rers  tread  ;  — 

I  hear  the  Plague  that  walks  at  night, 

I  mark  its  pestilential  blight; 

I  feel  its  hot  and  with'ring  breath, 

It  is  the  messenger  of  death  !  — 

And  can  a  scene  so  pure  and  fair 

Slumber  beneath  a  baleful  air  ? 

And  can  the  stealing  form  of  death 

Here  wither  with  its  blighting  breath  ? 

Yes ;  and  the  slumb'rer  feels  its  power 

At  midnight's  dark  and  silent  hour ; 

He  feels  the  wild  fire  thro'  his  brain ; 

He  wakes ;  his  frame  is  rack'd  with  pain ; 

His  eye  half  closed ;  his  lip  is  dark ; 

The  sword  of  death  hath  done  his  work ; 

That  sallow  cheek,  that  fever'd  lip, 

That  eye  which  burns  but  cannot  sleep, 

That  black  parch'd  tongue,  that  raging  brain, 

All  mark  the  monarch's  baleful  reign  ! 

Oh  !  for  one  pure,  one  balmy  breath, 
To  cool  the  sufferer's  brow  in  death ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  213 

Oh  !  for  one  wand'ring  breeze  of  Heav'n ; 
Oh  that  one  moment's  rest  were  giv'n  ! 
*T  is  past ;  —  and  hush'd  the  victim's  prayer ; 
The  spirit  was  —  but  is  not  there ! 


KINDAR   BURIAL   SERVICE, 

VERSIFIED. 

We  commend  our  brother  to  thee,  oh  earth ! 
To  thee  he  returns,  from  thee  was  his  birth ! 
Of  thee  was  he  form'd,  he  was  nourish'd  by  thee ; 
Take  the  body,  oh  earth !  the  spirit  is  free. 

Oh  air !  he  once  breath'd  thee,  thro'  thee  he  survived, 
And  in  thee,  and  with  thee,  his  pure  spirit  liv'd ; 
That  spirit  hath  fled,  and  we  yield  him  to  thee  ; 
His  ashes  be  spread,  like  his  soul,  far  and  free. 

Oh  fire  !  we  commit  his  dear  reliques  to  thee, 
Thou  emblem  of  purity,  spotless  and  free ; 
May  his  soul,  like  thy  flames,  bright  and  burning  arise. 
To  its  mansion  of  bliss,  in  the  star-spangled  skies. 

Oh  water !  receive  him ;  without  thy  kind  aid 

He  had  parch'd  'neath  the  sunbeams  or  mourn'd  in 

the  shade  ; 

Then  take  of  his  body  the  share  which  is  thine, 
For  the  spirit  hath  fled  from  its  mouldering  shrine. 

18 


214  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


THE    GRAVE. 

There  is  a  spot  so  still  and  dreary, 
It  is  a  pillow  to  the  weary ; 
It  is  so  solemn  and  so  lone, 
That  grief  forgets  to  heave  a  groan. 

There  life's  storms  can  enter  never ; 
There  'tis  dark  and  lonely  ever; 
The  mourner  there  shall  seek  repose, 
And  there  the  wanderer's  journey  close. 


RUINS    OF   PALMYRA. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Palmyra,  where  art  thou,  all  dreary  and  lone? 

The  breath  of  thy  fame,  like  the  night-wind,  hath 

flown ; 

O'er  thy  temples,  thy  minarets,  towers  and  halls 
The  dark  veil  of  oblivion  silently  falls. 

The  sands  of  the  desert  sweep  by  thee  in  pride, 
They  curl  round  thy  brow,  like  the  foam  of  the  tide, 
And  soon,  like   the   mountain   stream's  wild-rolling 

wave, 
Will  rush  o'er,  and  wrap  thee  at  once  in  thy  grave. 

Oh,  where  are  the  footsteps  which  once  gaily  flew 
O'er  pavements,  where  now  weep  the  foxglove  and 

yew? 

Oh  where  are  the  voices  which  once  gaily  sung, 
While  the  lofty-brow'd  domes  with  melody  rung? 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  215 

ley  are   silent;  —  and   naught   breaks   the  chaos 

of  death  ; 

Not  a  being  now  treads  o'er  the  ivy's  dull  wreath, 
Save  the  raging  hyena,  whose  terrible  cry 
Echoes  loud  thro'  the  halls  and  the  palaces  high. 

Thou  art  fallen,  Palmyra !  and  never  to  rise, 

Thou  "  queen  of  the  east,  thou  bright  child  of  the 

skies !" 

Thou  art  lonely ;  the  desert  around  thee  is  wide, 
Then  haste  to  its  arms,  nor  remember  thy  pride. 

Thou  'rt  forgotten,  Palmyra  !  return  thee  to  earth  ; 
And  great  be  thy  fall,  as  was  stately  thy  birth ; 
With  grandeur  then  bow  'neath  the'  pinion  of  time, 
And  sink,  not  in  splendour,  but  sadly  sublime. 


THE   WIDE   WORLD   IS   DREAR. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Oh  say  not  the  wide  world  is  lonely  and  dreary ! 

Oh  say  not  that  life  is  a  wilderness  waste ! 
There  's  ever  some  comfort  in  store  for  the  weary, 

And  there's  ever  some  hope  for  the  sorrowful  breast. 

There  are  often  sweet  dreams  which  will  steal  o'er 

the  soul, 

Beguiling  the  mourner  to  smile  through  a  tear, 
That  when  waking  the  dew-drops  of  mern'ry  may 

fall, 
And  blot  out  for  ever,  the  wide  world  is  drear. 


216  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

There  is  hope  for  the  lost,  for  the  lone  one's  relief, 
Which  will  beam  o'er  his  pathway  of  danger  and 

fear; 
There  is  pleasure's  wild  throb,  and  the  calm  "joy  of 

grief;" 
Oh  then  say  not  the  wide  world  is  lonely  and  drear! 

There  are  fears  that  are  anxious,  yet  sweet  to  the 
breast, 

Some  feelings,  which  language  ne'er  told  to  the  ear, 
Which  return  on  the  heart,  and  there  lingering  rest, 

Soft  whispering,  this  world  is  not  lonely  and  drear. 

'T  is  true,  that  the  dreams  of  the  evening  will  fade, 
When  reason's  broad  sunbeam  shines  calmly  and 
clear ; 

Still  fancy,  sweet  fancy,  will  smile  o'er  the  shade, 
And  say  that  the  world  is  not  lonely  and  drear. 

Oh  then  mourn  not  that  life  is  a  wilderness  waste ! 

That  each  hope  is  illusive,  each  prospect  is  drear, 
But  remember  that  man,  undeserving,  is  blest, 

And  rewarded  with  smiles  for  the  fall  of  a  tear. 


FAREWELL   TO   MISS   E.  B. 

(Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

Farewell,  and  whenever  calm  solitude's  hour, 
Shall  silently  spread  its  broad  wings  o'er  your  bower, 
Oh  !  then  gaze  on  yon  planet,  yon  watch-fire  divine, 
And   believe  that   my  soul  is  there   mingling   with 

thine. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  217 

When  the  dark  brow  of  evening  is  beaming  with 

stars, 

And  yon  crest  of  light  clouds  is  the  turban  she  wears, 
When  she  walks  forth  in  grandeur,  the  queen  of  the 

night, 
Oh  !  then  think  that  my  spirit  looks  on  with  delight. 

O'er  the  ocean  of  life  our  frail  vessels  are  bounding, 
And  danger  and  death  our  dark  pathway  surrounding; 
Destruction's  bright  meteors  are  dancing  before, 
And  behind  us  the  winds  of  adversity  roar. 

Oh  !  then  come,  let  us  light  friendship's  lamp  on  the 

wave, 

If  we're  lost,  it  will  shed  its  pure  light  o'er  the  grave, 
Or  't  will  guide  to  the  haven  of  Heaven  at  last, 
And  beam  on  when  the  voice  of  the  trumpet  hath 

past. 


THE  ARMY  OF  ISRAEL  AT  THE  FOOT  OF 
MOUNT  SINAI. 

Their  spears  glittered  bright  in  the  beams  of  the  sun ; 
Their  banners  waved  far,  and  their  high   helmets 

shone; 
And  their  dark  plumes  were  toss'd  on  the  breast  of 

the  breeze, 
But  the  war-trumpet  slumbered  the  slumber  of  peace. 

He  came  in  his  glory,  he  came  in  his  might, 
His  chariot  the  cloud,  and  his  sceptre  the  light ; 
The  sound  of  his  coming  was  heard  from  afar, 
Like  the  roar  of  a  nation  when  rushing  to  war. 

18* 


218  LUCRETIA  MARUi  DAVIDSON. 

'T  was  the  great  God  of  Israel,  riding  on  high, 
Whose  footstool  is  earth,  and  whose  throne  is  the  sky; 
He  stood  in  his  glory,  unseen  and  alone, 
And  with  letters  of  fire  traced  the  tablets  of  stone. 

The  eagle  may  soar  to  the  sun  in  his  might, 
And  the  eye  of  the  warrior  flash  fierce  in  the  fight ; 
But  say,  who  may  look  upon  God  the  Most  High? 
Oh,  Israel !  turn  back  from  his  glory,  or  die. 

The  sun  in  its  splendour,  the  fire  in  its  might, 
Which  devours  and  withers,  and  wastes   from  the 

sight, 

Is  dim  to  the  glory  which  beams  from  his  eye — 
Then,  Israel,  turn  back — Oh  !  return,  or  ye  die. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  GETHSEMANE. 

Gethsemane  !  there 's  holy  blood 
Upon  thy  green  and  waving  brow ; 

Gethsemane !  a  God  hath  stood, 
And  o'er  thy  branches  bended  low ! 

There,  drops  of  agony  have  hung 
Mingled  with  blood  upon  his  brow ; 

For  sin  his  bosom  there  was  wrung, 
And  there  it  bled  for  human  woe. 

There,  in  the  darkest  hour  of  night, 
Alone  he  watched,  alone  he  prayed ; 

Didst  thou  not  tremble  at  the  sight  ? 
A  God  reviled  !  —  a  God  betrayed  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  219 

Jethsemane !  so  dark  a  scene 

Ne'er  blotted  the  wide  book  of  time  1 
Oblivion's  veil  can  never  screen 
So  dark  a  deed,  so  black  a  crime  1 


THE   TEMPEST   GOD. 

Hark !  't  is  the  wheels  of  his  wide  rolling  car, 
They  traverse  the  heavens  and  come  from  afar ; 
Sublime  and  majestic  the  dark  cloud  he  rides, 
The  wing  of  the  whirlwind  he  fearlessly  strides, 
The  glance  of  his  eye  is  the  lightning's  broad  flame, 
And  the  caverns  re-echo  his  terrible  name. 

In  the  folds  of  his  pinions,  the  wild  whirlwinds  sleep, 
At  his  bidding  they  rush  o'er  the  foam  of  the  deep, 
He  speaks,  and  in  whispers  they  murmur  to  rest, 
And  calmly  they  sink  on  the  folds  of  his  breast; 
His  seat  is  the  mountain  top's  loftiest  height ; 
He  reigns  there  in  darkness,  the  king  of  the  night. 


TO   A   DEPARTING   FRIEND, 

Farewell,  and  may  some  angel  guide, 
Some  viewless  spirit  hover  o'er  thee ; 

Who,  Jet  or  weal  or  woe  betide, 

Will  still  unchanging  move  before  thee. 


220  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

A  hallow'd  light  shall  burn  at  night, 
When  sorrow's  wave  rolls  drearily, 

And  o'er  thy  way  a  cloud  by  day 
Shall  cast  its  shadow  cheerily. 

Thy  bark  of  pleasure  o'er  life's  smooth  sea 

Shall  gallantly  glide  along  ; 
Pray'rs  and  blessings  thy  breezes  shall  be, 

And  hope  be  thy  parting  song. 

Go  then ;  I  have  given  the  spirits  charge 
To  watch  o'er  thee  now  and  for  ever ; 

To  smooth  life's  waters,  and  guide  thy  barge 
Where  tempest  shall  toss  it  never. 


TO   MAMMA. 


Thy  love  inspires  the  Story  Teller's  tongue. 
To  tales  of  hearts  with  disappointment  wrung, 
Thy  love  inspires  ; — fresh  flows  the  copious  stream, 
And  what's  not  true,  let  fruitful  fancy  dream. 

THE  STORY  TELLER. 


THE  PARTING  OF  DECOURCY  AND 
WILHELMINE. 

(Written  in  her  fourteenth  year.) 

1.  Lo!  enthroned  on  golden  clouds, 
Sinks  the  monarch  of  the  day ; 
Now  yon  hill  his  glory  shrouds, 
And  his  brilliance  fades  away. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


221 


2.  But  as  it  fled,  one  ling'ring  beam 

Play'd  o'er  yon  spire,  which  points  on  high ; 
It  cast  one  bright,  one  transient  gleam, 
Then  hast'ned  from  the  deep'ning  sky 

3.  Lo!  the  red  tipp'd  clouds  remain 

But  to  tell  of  glories  past; 
Mark  them  gath'ring  o'er  the  plain, 
Mark  them  fade  away  at  last. 

4.  The  lake  is  calm,  the  breeze  is  stil 

Nor  dares  to  whisper  o'er  a  leaf; 
And  nothing  save  the  murm'ring  ri . " 
Can  give  the  vacant  ear  relief. 

5.  Around  yon  hawthorn  in  the  vale, 

White  garments  float  like  evening  mis* 
'Tis  Wilhelmine,  and  cold  and  pale 
A  simple  marble  stone  she  kiss'd. 

6.  She  knelt  her  by  a  lowly  tomb, 

And  wreath'd  its  urn  anew  with  flowers ; 
She  taught  the  white  rose  there  to  bloom, 
And  water'd  it  with  sorrow's  showers. 

7.  Like  raven's  wing,  her  glossy  hair 

In  ringlets  floated  on  the  gale, 
Or  hung  upon  a  brow  as  fair 
As  snow-curl  crested  in  the  vale. 

8.  And  her  dark  eye  which  rolls  so  wild, 

Once  brightly  sparkled  with  hope's  light, 
For  Wilhelmine  was  pleasure's  child, 

When  fortune's  smiles  shone  sweetly  bright. 


222  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

9.  Decourcy  lov'd — the  morn  was  clear, 

And  fancy  promised  bliss ; 
For  now  the  happy  hour  was  near, 
Which  made  the  maiden  his. 

0.  And  Wilhelmine  sat  smiling  sweet 

Beneath  the  spreading  tree, 
Her  nimble  foot  was  quick  to  meet, 
Her  glancing  eye  to  see. 

11.  Decourcy  came  upon  his  steed, 

His  brow  and  cheek  were  pale; 
Speak— speak,  Decourcy,  cried  the  maid, 
'Tis  sure  a  dreadful  tale. 

12.  My  love,  my  Wilhelmine,  cried  he. 

Be  calm  and  fear  thee  not; 
In  battle  I  will  think  on  thee, 
And  oh,  forget  me  not. 

13.  Adieu !  he  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast, 

And  kiss'd  the  trickling  tear 
Which  'neath  her  half-clos'd  eyelids  prest 
And  ling'ring  glist'ned  there. 

14.  He  gazed  upon  that  death-like  face, 

So  beautiful  before; 
He  gazed  upon  that  shrine  of  grace, 
And  dared  to  gaze  no  more. 

15.  He  trembled,  press'd  his  burning  brow, 

And  clos'd  his  aching  eyes; 
His  limbs  refuse  their  office  now, 
The  maid  before  him  lies. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  223 

16.  But  hark !  the  trumpet's  warlike  sound 

Jjchoes  from  hill  to  vale; 
H'    caught  the  maiden  from  the  ground, 
And  kiss'd  her  forehead  pale. 

17.  A^hy  should  Decourcy  linger  there, 

When  the  bugle  bids  him  speed? 
One  long  last  look  of  calm  despair, 
And  he  springs  upon  his  steed; 

j.  He  strikes  the  sting  of  his  bloody  spur 

In  his  foaming  courser's  side, 
And  he  gallops  on  where  the  wave  of  war 
Rolls  on  with  its  bursting  tide. 

19.  Whose  was  the  sword  that  flashed  so  bright, 

Like  the  flaming  brand  of  heaven  ? 
And  whose  the  plume,  that  from  morn  till  night 
Was  a  star  to  the  hopeless  given  ? 

20.  JT  was  thine,  Decourcy  !  that  terrible  sword 

Hath  finished  its  work  of  death, 
And  the  hand  which  raised  it  on  high  is  lowered 
To  the  damp  green  earth  beneath. 

21.  The  sun  went  down,  and  its  parting  ray 

Smiled  sorrow  across  the  earth, 
The  light  breeze  moaned — then  died  away, 
And  the  stars  rose  up  in  mirth. 

22.  And  the  timid  moon  looked  down  with  a  smile 

On  the  blood-stained  battle  ground, 
And  the  groans  of  the  wounded  rose  up  the  while 
With  a  sad  heart-rending  sound, 


224  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

23.  While  the  spectre-form  of  some  grief-worn  man, 

Steals  slowly  and  silently  by, 
Each  corpse  to  note — each  face  to  scan, 
For  his  friend  on  that  field  doth  lie. 

24.  But  whose  is  the  figure  dimly  seen 

By  the  trembling  moon-beam's  light  ? 
JT  is  the  form  of  the  weeping  Welhelmine, 
And  she  kneels  by  the  slaughtered  knight. 

25.  Weep  not  for  the  dead,  for  he  died  'mid  the  din, 

And  the  rapturous  snouts  of  strife, 
And  the  bright  sword  hath  ushered  his  soul  within 
The  portals  of  future  life. 

26.  Weep  not  for  the  dead !  who  would  not  die 

As  that  gallant  soldier  died? 
With  a  field  of  glory  whereon  to  lie, 
And  his  foeman  dead  beside. 

27.  A  year  passed  by,  and  a  simple  tomb 

Rose  up  'neath  a  willow  tree, 
JT  was  decked  with  flowers  in  vernal  bloom 
As  fresh  as  flowers  could  be ; 

28.  And  oft  as  the  twilight's  dusky  gleam 

O'er  tne  scene  was  gently  stealing, 
The  form  of  the  sorrowful  maid  was  seen 
By  the  grave  of  her  lover  kneeling. 

29.  But  wild  is  the  glance  of  her  dove-like  eye, 

And  her  cheek,  oh  how  pale  and  fair ! 
And  the  mingled  smile,  and  the  deep  drawn  sigh, 
Show  that  reason's  no  longer  there. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  225 


30.  Another  year  passed,  and  another  grave 

'Neath  the  willow  tree  is  seen ; 
By  the  side  of  her  lover,  Decourcy  the  brave, 
Lay  the  corpse  of  Wilhelmine. 


LOVE,   JOY,    AND   PLEASURE. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 
(Written  in  her  fifteenth  year.) 

The  night  was  calm,  the  sky  serene, 

The  sea  a  mirror  displayed, 
On  its  bosom  the  twinkling  stars  were  seen, 
The  moon-crested  waves  were  dancing  between, 

And  smiling  through  evening's  shade. 

On  that  placid  sea  Pleasure's  bark  was  riding, 
Love  and  Joy  were  its  guides  through  the  deep, 

And  their  hearts  beat  high,  while  on  fortune  con 
fiding, 

They  smil'd  at  the  forms  that  were  gloomily  striding, 
O'er  the  brow  of  the  wave-wash'd  steep. 

Those  forms  were  Malice,  and  Scorn,  and  Hate, 

And  they  flitted  around  so  dark, 
That  they  seem'd  like  the  gloomy  sisters  of  Fate, 
Intent  on  some  dreary,  some  deadly  debate. 

To  ruin  the  beautiful  bark. 
19 


226  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSO 


But  the  eye  of  Joy  was  raised  on  high, 

She  gaz'd  at  the  moon's  pale  lamp, 
The  tear  of  Pleasure  shone  bright  in  her  eye, 
And  she  saw  not  the  clouds  which  were  passing  by, 

Death's  messengers  dark  and  damp. 

And  Pleasure  was  gazing  with  childish  glee 

At  the  beacon's  trembling  gleam, 
Or  watching  the  shade  of  her  wings  in  the  sea, 
With  their  colours  as  varied  and  fickle  as  she 

As  fleeting  as  Folly's  dream. 

And  Love  was  tipping  his  feathery  darts, 

And  feeding  his  flaming  torch, 
He  was  tinging  his  wings  with  the  blood  of  hearts,. 
He   was   chaunting  low  numbers,  and   smiling   by 
starts 

At  the  flowers  'round  Hymen's  porch. 

Meanwhile  the  clouds  were  gath'ring  drear, 

They  hung  'round  the  weeping  moon, 
And  still  the  mariners  dream'd  not  of  fear, 
Still  in  Joy's  bright  eye  beam'd  the  brilliant  tear, 
Which  sorrow  would  claim  too  soon. 

The  voice  of  the  tempest-god  rolled  around, 

The  bark  towards  heaven  was  toss'd ; 
Then,  then  the  fond  dreamers  awoke  at  the  sound, 
And  Pleasure,  the  helmsman,  in  agony  found 
That  the  light-house  fire  was  lost. 

Loud  and  more  loud  the  billows  roar, 

The  ocean  no  more  is  gay, 
Love  dreams  of  his  pinions  and  arrows  no  more, 
Joy  mourns  the  hour  that  she  left  the  shore, 

And  Pleasure's  bright  wings  fade  away. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  227 

Then  Malice  sent  forth  a  shadowy  bark, 

Which,  bounding  o'er  the  wave, 
Came  like  a  meteor's  brilliant  spark, 
A  star  of  light  'mid  the  tempest  dark, 

A  beacon  of  hope  from  the  grave. 

Joy  onward  rush'd  to  the  airy  skiff 

Which  near  them  gaily  drew, 
But  ah !  she  sank  to  the  arms  of  Grief, 
For  the  bark,  which  promised  them  sure  relief 

Away  like  lightning  flew. 

Then  the  smile  of  Scorn  and  Malice  gleam'd 

Across  the  billow's  foam, 
And  long  and  loud  fell  Hatred  scream'd 
With  fiend-like  joy,  as  the  lightning  streamed 

Around  their  forms  of  gloom. 

On,  on,  they  drifted  before  the  gale ; 

Again  the  signal  rose; 
Joy  and  Pleasure  the  beacon  hail, 
Love's  ashy  cheek  becomes  less  pale 

As  clearer  and  brighter  it  glows. 

JT  was  Hope  who  fired  the  beacon  high, 

And  she  came  with  her  anchor  of  rest, 
And  Faith,  who  raised  towards  heaven  her  eye, 
Spoke  peace  to  the  storm  of  the  troubled  sky, 
And  calm  to  the  weary  breast. 

And  Charity  came  with  her  robe  of  light. 

And  she  led  the  wanderers  home, 
She  warmed  them  and  wept  o'er  the  woes  of  the 
night, 

she  welcomed  them  in  with  a  smile  so  bright, 
That  Pleasure  forgot  to  roam. 


228  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

And  she  led  them  to  Religion's  shrine, 
Where  Hope  was  humbly  kneeling, 
And  there  the  tears  of  Joy  did  shine 
With  a  light  more  dazzling,  more  divine, 
They  were  mingled  with  tears  of  feeling. 

There  Love's  wild  wings  shone  calmly  bright. 

As  over  the  altar  he  waved  them  ; 
There  Pleasure  folded  her  pinions  light, 
And  fondly  gazed  with  a  sacred  delight 

On  the  scroll  which  Charity  gave  them. 


MY  LAST  FAREWELL  TO  MY  HARP 


And  must  we  part  ?  yes,  part  for  ever 
I'll  waken  thee  again — no,  never; 
Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear, 
And  thou  shalt  calmly  slumber  here. 
Unhallowed  was  the  eye  that  gazed 
Upon  the  lamp  which  brightly  blazed, 
The  lamp  which  never  can  expire, 
The  undying,  wild,  poetic  fire. 
And  Oh !  unhallowed  was  the  tongue 
Which  boldly  and  uncouthly  sung  ; 
I  bless'd  the  hour  when  o'er  my  soul, 
Thy  magic  numbers  gently  stole, 
And  o'er  it  threw  those  heavenly  strains, 
Which  since  have  bound  my  heart  in  chains ; 
Those  wild,  those  witching  numbers  still 
Will  o'er  my  widow'd  bosom  steal. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  229 

I  blest  that  hour,  but  Oh  !  my  heart, 
Thou  and  thy  Lyre  must  part ;  yes,  part ; 
And  this  shall  be  my  last  farewell, 
This  my  sad  bosom's  latest  knell. 
And  here,  my  harp,  we  part  for  ever ; 
^'11  waken  thee  again,  Oh  !  never ; 
Silence  shall  chain  thee  cold  and  drear 
And  thou  shalt  calmly  slumber  here. 


19 


SPECIMENS 


OF 


PROSE  COMPOSITION, 


COLUMBUS. 

>  • 

Written  in  her  sixteenth  year.) 

WHAT  must  have  been  the  feelings  of  Christopher 
Columbus,  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  knelt  arid 
clasped  his  hands,  in  gratitude,  upon  the  shores  of  his 
newly-discovered  world?  Year  after  year  has  rolled 
away;  war,  famine,  and  fire  have  alternately  swept 
the  face  of  that  country;  the  hand  of  tyranny  hath 
oppressed  it;  the  footstep  of  the  slave  hath  wearily 
trodden  it ;  the  blood  of  the  slaughtered  hath  dyed  it ; 
the  tears  of  the  wretched  have  bedewed  it;  still,  even 
at  this  remote  period,  every  feeling  bosom  will  delight 
to  dwell  upon  this  brilliant  era  in  the  life  of  the  per 
severing  adventurer.  At  that  moment,  his  name  was 
stamped  upon  the  records  of  history  for  ever;  at  that 
moment,  doubt,  fear,  and  anxiety  fled,  for  his  foot  had 
pressed  upon  the  threshold  of  the  promised  land. 

The  bosom  of  Columbus  hath  long  since  ceased  to 
beat — its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  projects,  sleep,  with  him, 
the  long  and  dreamless  slumber  of  the  grave;  but 
while  there  remains  one  generous  pulsation  in  the 
human  breast,  his  name  and  his  memory  will  be  held 
sacred. 

When  the  cold  dews  of  uncertainty  stood  upon  his 
brow ;  when  he  beheld  nothing  but  the  wide  heavens 
above,  the  boundless  waters  beneath  and  around  him; 
himself  and  his  companions  in  that  little  bark,  the  only 
beings  upon  the  endless  world  of  sky  and  ocean 

(233) 


234  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

\vhen  he  looked  back  and  thought  upon  his  native 
land;  when  he  looked  forward,  and  in  vain  traversed 
the  liquid  desert,  for  some  spot  upon  which  to  fix  the 
aching  eye  of  anxiety;  oh!  say,  amidst  all  these  dan 
gers,  these  uncertainties,  w  hence  came  that  high,  un 
bending  hope,  which  still  soared  onward  to  the  world 
before  him?  whence  that  undying  patience,  that  more 
than  mortal  courage,  which  forbade  his  cheek  to  blanch 
amid  the  storm,  or  his  heart  to  recoil  in  the  dark  and 
silent  hour  of  midnight?  It  was  from  God  — it  was 
Of  God — His  Spirit  overshadowed  the  adventurer  !  By 
day,  an  unseen  cloud  directed  him — by  night,  a  bril 
liant,  but  invisible  column  moved  before  him,  gleam 
ing  athwart  the  boundless  waste  of  waters.  The 
winds  watched  over  him,  and  the  waves  upheld  him, 
for  God  was  with  him  —  the  whirlwind  passed  over 
his  little  bark,  and  left  it  still  riding  onward,  in  safety, 
towards  its  unknown  harbour  —  for  the  eye  of  Him 
who  pierces  the  deep  was  fixed  upon  it. 

Columbus  had  hoped,  feared,  and  had  been  disap 
pointed  ;  he  had  suffered  long  and  patiently — he  had 
strained  every  faculty,  every  nerve ;  he  had  pledged 
his  very  happiness  upon  the  discovery  of  an  unknown 
land ;  and  what  must  have  been  the  feelings  of  his 
soul,  when,  at  length  bending  over  that  very  land,  his 
grateful  bosom  offered  its  tribute  of  praise  and  thanks 
giving  to  the  Being  who  had  guarded  and  guided  him 
through  death  and  danger  ?  He  beheld  the  bitter  smile 
of  scorn  and  derision  fade  before  the  reality  of  that 
vision,  which  had  been  ridiculed  and  mocked  at;  he 
thought  upon  the  thousand  obstacles  which  he  had 
surmounted  ;  he  thought  upon  those  w  ho  had  regarded 
him  as  a  self-devoted  enthusiast,  a  visionary  madman, 
and  his  full  heart  throbbed  in  gratitude  to  Him  whose 
Spirit  had  inspired  him,  whose  voice  had  sent  him 
forth,  and  whose  arm  had  protected  him. 


ALPHONSO.  235 

ALPHONSO  IN  SEARCH  OF  LEARNING. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 
(Written  in  her  eleventh  year  ) 

EARLY  one  morning  Alphonso  set  out  in  search  of 
Learning.  He  travelled  over  barren  heaths  and  over 
rocks,  and  was  often  obliged  to  ford  rivers,  which 
seemed  almost  impassable;  at  last,  completely  ex 
hausted,  and  at  a  loss  what  road  to  take,  he  sat  down 
desponding  by  the  side  of  a  rapid  river.  Soon  a  pas 
senger  approached  with  whom  Alphonso  entered  into 
conversation,  and  at  length  asked  him  where  he  was 
going.  I  am,  replied  the  stranger,  seeking  Fame,  and 
already  by  her  trump  has  my  name  been  sounded  in 
her  courts.  She  has  promised  to  immortalize  my 
name;  follow  me,  and  you  shall  richly  reap  the  reward 
of  your  labour,  /also,  answered  Alphonso,  have  a 
road  to  pursue,  which  leads  to  Fame,  but  it  is  through 
Learning  that  I  must  reach  her  courts,  and  then  shall 
I  enjoy  the  fruits  of  my  toil,  in  proportion  to  the 
hardships  with  which  I  have  acquired  it.  Can  you 
tell  me  where  she  can  be  found? 
^  You  ree,  replied  the  stranger,  yonder  hills  which 
rise  one  upon  the  other,  as  far  as  the  eye  extends  ;  far, 
far  beyond  them,  whose  every  precipice  you  have  to 
climb,  Learning  resides.  Her  temple  is  pleasant,  but 
few  there  are  who  gain  it;  many,  indeed,  have  gone 
beyond  these  foremost  hills,  but  stumbling,  they  have 
been  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks,  but  still  they  have 
had  the  reputation  of  having  reached  her  temple,  and 
their  names  are  recorded  in  the  roll  of  Fame.  Thus 


LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

saying,  the  stranger  proceeded  on  his  journey,  and 
left  Alphonso  in  doubt  whether  to  pursue  the  danger 
ous  road  of  which  the  stranger  had  warned  him,  or 
to  follow  him  to  more  easily  acquired  fame. 

At  last  Wisdom  came  to  his  assistance,  and  he  re 
solved  not  to  give  up  his  search  after  Learning.  He 
proceeded  therefore,  and  had  reached  the  foot  of  the 
nil),  when  he  was  met.  by  another  person,  who  inquired 
whither  he  was  going?  I  am  in  pursuit  of  Learning, 
replied  Alphonso.  What !  do  you  intend  climbing 
yonder  rugged  and  tiresome  hill?  I  do,  answered 
Alphonso. 

Indolence  is  my  companion,  said  the  stranger :  I 
found  her  in  yonder  valley.  I  toiled  not  for  her,  and 
without  toil,  I  enjoy  ease  ;  on  the  other  hand,  Learning 
cannot  be  obtained  without  labour;  go  with  me,  and 
you  shall  enjoy  life.  Alphonso,  partly  fatigued  with 
his  long  walk,  and  partly  discouraged  by  the  rugged 
appearance  of  the  hill,  consented.  After  walking  on 
sometime  in  a  beautiful  valley,  Alphonso  began  to  dis 
cover  that  his  new  companion  was  flat  and  insipid, 
that  he  had  exhausted  all  his  little  fund  of  knowledge 
in  the  beginning  of  their  journey,  and  that  he  now 
scarcely  said  anything.  Thus  continuing  dissatisfied, 
not  with  the  path,  but  with  the  companion  he  had, 
they  entered  a  beautiful  meadow,  in  which  there  was 
an  arbour,  called  the  arbour  of  Indolence,  and  there 
they  lay  down  to  rest ;  but  before  Alphonso  slept,  a 
warning  voice  sounded  in  his  ear,  "  awake,  for  de 
struction  is  at  hand."  He  heeded  it  not,  and  with 
his  senses  slept  his  conscience. 

When  they  arose  to  pursue  their  journey,  a  tempest 
gathered ;  thick  clouds  were  in  the  heavens,  all  was 
black.  Night's  sable  mantle  was  thrown  over  the 
horizon,  and  only  now  and  then  a  flash  of  lightning, 
attended  with  a  dreadful  thunderbolt,  showed  them 


ALPHONSO.  2'tf 

both  the  dead  waters  of  oblivion  ;  near  them  was  the 
path  which  slides  the  unhappy  deluded  mortal  down 
to  its  deep  and  noisome  bed. 

Alphonso's  conductor,  who  had  before  appeared  cer 
tain  of  being  on  safe  ground,  trembled  and  turned  pale 
when  he  found  himself  in  the  fatal  path.  Alphonso 
was  on  the  brink  !  He  receded  ;  his  flesh  grew  cold, 
his  eyeballs  glared,  and  his  hair  stood  on  end.  Pre 
sently  he  heard  a  low  plashing  of  the  dead  waters  of 
oblivion ;  they  closed  with  a  sullen  roar  over  the  un 
happy  sufferer,  and  all  was  silent.  This  is  the  end  of 
the  careless  votary  of  Indolence,  thought  Alphonso, 
as  he  turned  from  the  dead  waters  of  the  lake.  Let 
this  be  a  lesson  to  me  ! 

He  stood  in  deep  perplexity  some  time,  not  daring 
to  turn  back,  and  he  knew  it  would  be  certain  death 
to  proceed  ;  but  suddenly  the  clouds  dispersed,  the  air 
was  calm,  and  all  was  silent;  he  blessed  the  returning 
light,  and  with  new  vigour,  passed  on  his  way  in  search 
of  Learning.  He  was  overjoyed,  when  he  found  him 
self  out  of  the  fatal  vale  of  Indolence. 

Again  he  viewed  those  hills  which  so  discouraged 
him  when  they  met  his  eye  before,  but  now  they  ap 
peared  to  him  with  a  far  different  aspect,  as  he  traced 
over  them  the  path  to  Learning's  happy  temple. 

He  began  his  journey  anew,  and  as  he  proceeded, 
the  ascent  was  easier.  When  he  reached  the  top  of 
the  hill,  a  few  faint  rays  of  the  bright  sun  of  Learning 
warmed  his  heart,  and  though  faint,  it  was  sufficient 
to  kindle  the  slumbering  fire  of  hope  in  his  bosom. 
After  he  had  reached  the  valley  below,  he  saw  a 
person  crossing  on  the  opposite  side,  with  a  light  step, 
and  an  open  ingenuous  countenance. 

Alphonso  stopped  him,  and  inquired,  why  he  did 
not  ascend  the  hill  before  him?  Because,  said  the 
stranger,  "  I  seek  Truth,  and  she  dwells  in  the  simple 
20 


238  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

vale  of  Innocence ;  at  her  court  there  is  no  pomp,  but 
there  is  peace;  she  discloses  her  name  to  all;  some 
revile  her,  others  say  she  is  of  no  use  to  the  world, 
that  they  are  always  as  victorious  without  her  assist 
ance  as  with  it.  Her  followers  scarce  ever  suffer 
from  the  imputations  of  the  vile,  when  they  hold  fast 
upon  her  garments.  I  can  possess  Truth  and  Inno 
cence  without  Learning."  Here  the  travellers  parted 
— Alphonso  to  ascend  the  hill,  the  stranger  to  the 
vale  of  Innocence. 

Without  a  companion  in  his  solitary  journey;  with 
no  one  to  assist  him  on  his  way;  no  one  to  raise  him 
if  he  stumbled,  Alphonso  pursued  his  toilsome  course. 
At  length,  casting  his  eyes  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  he 
perceived  standing  on  its  summit  a  figure  stretching 
out  one  hand  to  assist  him,  the  other  rested  on  an  an 
chor,  and  a  bright  beam  played  around  her  brow. 
Alphonso  hastened  to  ascend  the  hill,  and  when  he 
approached,  he  clasped  the  outstretched  hand  of  Hope, 
for  that  was  the  name  of  the  fair  form,  and  imprinted 
it  with  kisses.  Hope  smiled  affectionately  upon  him, 
and  with  these  encouraging  words  addressed  him : 
"  Alphonso !  I  come  to  conduct  you  to  the  temple  of 
Learning;  you  have  overcome  alone  the  greatest 
obstacles,  you  shall  now  have  a  conductor." 

As  they  came  to  frightful  precipices,  where  un 
fortunate  mortals  had  been  dashed  headlong,  for  daring 
to  approach  too  near  its  edge,  Hope  would  catch  his 
hand  and  conduct  him  to  safer  ground.  At  last, 
through  many  difficulties,  hazards,  and  reproaches, 
Alphonso  came  in  sight  of  the  temple  of  Learning. 
The  sun  was  just  sinking,  and  it  illumed  the  edges  of 
the  fleecy  floating  clouds  with  a  golden  hue.  Its  last 
beam  played  upon  the  glittering  spire  of  the  temple; 
Alphonso  could  scarce  believe  his  eyes,  They  reached 


ALPHONSO.  239 

the  threshold.  After  so  many  toils,  so  many  dangers, 
he  had  now  acquired  the  object  of  his  hopes. 

They  stood  a  moment,  when  the  door  was  opened 
by  a  grave-looking  old  man,  who  heartily  welcomed 
them  to  the  temple.  As  they  entered,  all  was  light: 
it  burst  upon  his  sight  like  some  enchanted  scene, 
where  none  but  retherial  beings  dwell.  Irresistibly 
he  cast  his  eyes  up  to  the  nave  of  the  spacious  hall, 
and  beheld  Learning  seated  upon  a  throne  of  gold. 
A  bright  sun  emitted  its  cheering  rays  above  his  head. 
In  one  hand  she  held  a  globe,  in  the  other  a  pen. 
Books  were  piled  up  in  great  order  here,  and  in  an 
other  place  they  were  strewn  in  wild  profusion.  Ten 
of  her  favourite  disciples  were  ranged  on  either  hand, 
the  swift-winged  Genius  with  his  beloved  companion 
Fancy  were  seated  at  her  right  hand,  and  often  did 
Genius  cast  an  approving  smile  at  the  mistress  of  his 
heart  and  actions ;  she  who  had  tamed  the  wild  spirit 
of  his  temper,  and  taught  it  to  follow  in  gentler,  softer, 
and  sweeter  murmurs. 

Hope  now  conducted  Alphonso  to  the  throne  of 
Learning.  She  smiled  as  he  humbly  kneeled  at  her 
footstool,  and  taking  a  laurel  from  the  hand  of  the  de 
lighted  and  willing  Genius,  she  crowned  the- brow  of 
the  elated  Alphonso.  Fancy  for  a  moment  deserted 
the  side  of  Genius  and  hovered  over  his  laurel-crowned 
brow ;  then  clapping  her  wings  in  delight,  she  again 
resumed  her  former  station.  Learning  stretched  forth 
her  hand  to  him ;  arise,  said  she,  you  are  destined  by 
fate  to  fill  this  long  vacant  seat.  Alphonso  kissed  the 
outstretched  hand,  and  gratefully  took  his  seat  at  the 
side  of  Learning. 


240  LUCRETIA   MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


SENSIBILITY. 


IN  this  delicate  emotion  of  the  human  mind  there  is 
a  mixture  of  danger  and  delight ;  it  may  be  indulged 
moderately,  with  pleasure  to  its  possessor,  but  uncon 
trolled,  it  brings  in  its  train  a  succession  of  ideal  mise 
ries,  and  sensations  of  acute  pain  or  exquisite  delight. 

It  often  causes  the  heart  to  shrink  with  sensitive 
horror  from  difficulties  in  the  path  of  life  slightly  no 
ticed,  or  scarcely  perceptible  to  the  mind  well  governed 
by  reason,  or  fortified  by  principle.  Lively  sensi 
bility  may  be  considered  as  the  key-stone  of  the  heart; 
it  often  unguardedly  unlocks  the  treasures  confided  to 
its  care,  and  pouring  forth  the  full  tide  of  feeling,  the 
warmest  impulses  of  the  soul  are  wasted  upon  trifles 
or  squandered  on  objects  insignificant  to  the  eye  of 
reason,  and  frequently  exposes  the  feeling  heart  to 
contempt  and  ridicule. 

Deep  and  delicate  sensibility,  that  feeling  of  the  soul 
which  shrinks  from  observation  and  pours  itself  forth 
in  secret  calm  retirement,  must  certainly  by  its  dignity 
and  sacred  character  cause  feelings  of  reverence  for 
its  possessor.  Jesus  wept  over  the  grave  of  his  de 
parted  friend,  his  sensibility  was  aroused,  and  he  shed 
tears  of  sorrow  over  the  dark  wreck  of  a  once  noble 
fabric  in  the  mouldering  remnants  of  mortality  before 
him.  His  prophetic  soul  gazed  upon  wide  scenes  of 
future  desolation.  He  felt  for  the  miseries  of  mankind ; 
he  pitied  their  folly  and  wept  over  the  final  destruc 
tion  of  the  human  frame,  undermined  by  sin  and 
borne  down  by  death. 


THE  HOLY  WRITINGS.  241 


THE   HOLY   WRITINGS. 

THROUGH  the  whole  of  this  sacred  volume  may  be 
traced  the  finger  of  a  God  !  It  is  overshadowed  by 
his  arm,  and  his  spirit  walks  forth  in  the  sublimity  of 
his  commandments.  What  are  the  mad  revilings  of 
the  scoffer  1  They  are  like  burning  coals  which  fall 
back  upon  the  head  of  him  who  hurled  them,  leaving 
the  object  of  his  rage  uninjured.  What  are  the  most 
philosophic  works  of  mankind  when  placed  in  com 
parison  with  it  'I  They  sink  into  nothing.  What  are 
the  brilliant  shafts  of  human  wit  when  directed  against 
it  1  They  are  as  the  gilded  wing  of  the  butterfly,  flut 
tering  feebly  against  the  nervous,  the  resistless  pinion 
of  an  eagle.  What  are  all  the  immense  magazines 
of  learning  beside  it,  but  a  boundless  heap  of  chaff? 
Yes ;  the  vast  edifices  of  human  knowledge  reared 
by  the  restless  hand  of  ingenuity,  and  bedecked  with 
all  the  gaudy  trappings  of  eloquence,  crumble  into 
dust  and  fall  prostrate  in  its  presence,  as  did  the  hea 
then  idol  before  the  ark  of  the  living  God ! 

Do  we  ask  eloquence?  Where  can  it  be  found 
more  pure  than  from  the  mouth  of  him  whose  voice 
of  mercy  is  a  murmur,  and  whose  anger  speaks  in 
wrathfuf  thunders?  Do  we  ask  sublimity?  The 
eagle  in  its  flight  toward  heaven  is  less  sublime  than 
the  hallowed  words  of  its  Maker.  Do  we  ask  sim 
plicity  ?  What  is  more  touchingly  so,  than  the  lan 
guage  of  the  sacred  volume  ?  Do  we  ask  sweetness 
or  tenderness  ?  The  breath  of  summer  is  less  sweet 
than  the  Almighty's  offered  mercies.  The  fabled 
bird  which  sheds  her  blood  for  the  nourishment  of 
20* 


242  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

her  innocent  offspring,  is  cruel  in  comparison  with 
him,  who  bled,  who  died,  for  those  who  cursed  ana 
tortured  him.  Do  we  ask  grandeur,  wildness  or 
strength  ?  Look  there !  there  upon  the  law  of  him 
whose  very  self  is  grandeur,  whose  glance  is  light 
ning,  and  whose  arm  is  strength. 

The  hand  of  the  impious  and  the  envious  may 
hurl  the  dust  of  derision  upon  this  sacred  volume: 
still,  it  will  shine  on,  brighter  and  brighter,  while  time 
shall  be ! 


CHARITY.  243 


CHARITY. 

THE  sacred  volume  exhorts  us  to  Charity.  How 
carefully  then  should  we  cherish  this  kindly  feeling, 
this  spark  from  the  fountain  of  life,  that  it  may  beam 
forth  undimmed,  and  with  its  pure  and  friendly  light, 
cast  a  ray  over  our  many  imperfections,  in  that  day 
when  all  will  stand  in  need  of  mercy  and  forbear 
ance  ! 

It  is  not  the  bare  distribution  of  alms  to  the  needy 
and  suffering  beggar,  it  is  not  the  pompous  offerings 
of  opulence  to  the  shrinking  child  of  poverty,  which 
constitutes  true  charily ; — no ;  it  is  to  be  understood 
in  a  far  wider  sense ;  it  is  forbearing  to  join  with  the 
multitude,  when  trampling  upon  a  fallen  fellow-crea 
ture.  It  is  the  voice  of  charity  which  pleads  for  the 
wretched  and  the  penitent,  which  raises  the  prostrate, 
and  whispers  forgiveness  for  the  past,  and  hope  for 
the  future.  It  is  her  hand  which  pours  the  balm  of 
consolation  into  the  lacerated  bosom  of  the  returning 
wanderer ;  who  dares  not  look  back  upon  the  past, 
and  whose  heart  shrinks  as  it  meets  the  cold  and 
averted  glances  of  those,  who  in  the  hour  of  its  pride 
had  bowed  before  it. 

We  are  all  liable  to  err.  Let  us  make  the  situation 
of  the  suffering  penitent  our  own.  Where  are  the 
friends  we  had  fondly  fancied  ours  ?  fled,  a?  from  the 
breath  of  pestilence,  and  we  are  desolate ;  left  with 
the  arrow  of  adversity  rankling  in  our  bosoms,  like 
the  stricken  deer  by  the  selfish  herd,  to  perish  in  soli 
tude  and  wretchedness. 

There  is  no  heart  so  hardened  add  depraved,  thai 


244  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

it  will  not,  when  the  soft  voice  of  charity  whispers 
peace  and  forgiveness,  yield  like  wax  beneath  the 
hand  which  stamps  it.  Then  is  the  moment  to  im 
press  upon  it  the  sacred  precepts  of  virtue,  and  to 
place  the  bright  rewards  of  penitence  before  it.  "  Let 
us  then  do  as  we  would  that  others  should  do  unto 
us ;"  have  mercy  upon  the  fallen,  and  stretch  forth 
the  hand  of  charity  to  the  suffering  and  the  penitent. 


REMARKS  ON  THE  IMMORALITY  OF 
THE  STAGE. 

WHY  is  it  that  the  ear  of  modesty  must  be  shocked 
by  the  indelicacy  and  immorality  which  obstinately 
clings  to  the  stage,  that  vehicle  of  good  or  evil,  that 
splendid  engine  whose  movements  may  shed  a  halo 
of  brilliancy  around  it,  or  leave  behind  the  blackened 
traces  of  its  desolating  progress  ? 

Can  the  eye  of  innocence  gaze  even  upon  the  mimic 
characters  of  vice,  or  the  ear  of  delicacy  become 
familiarized  to  the  rude  and  boisterous,  or  the  more 
dangerously  subtle  insinuations  of  depravity,  without 
quitting  the  fascinating  scene  less  fastidious  in  its  feel 
ings,  less  sensible  to  the  bold  intrusions  of  barefaced 
wickedness  1  No  :  —  though  the  change  be  slow  and 
almost  imperceptible,  still  it  will  not  be  the  less  certain, 
the  fatal  poison  will  creep  to  the  very  vitals  of  virtue, 
and  stamp  deep  stains  upon  the  spotless  tablet  of  inno 
cence. 

Must  then  all  that  is  bright  and  pure  be  shut  out 
from  those  scenes  of  fascination,  and  delight  1  Must 
that  very  purity  which  should  be  cherished  and  guard 
ed  as  a  sacred  deposit,  be  converted  into  a  chain 


CONTEMPLATION  OF  THE  HEAVENS.   245 

wherewith  to  shackle  the  amusements  of  its  possessor? 
Would  not  the  frequent  indulgence  of  this  amusement, 
be  holding  forth  a  strong  temptation  to  those  who  are 
but  partially  fortified  in  the  principles  of  rectitude  to 
overleap  the  crumbling  ill-formed  barrier,  and  plunge 
at  once  into  the  boundless  ocean  of  vice  and  immo 
rality  ? 

Oh  why  will  not  authors,  those  helmsmen  in  the 
mighty  vessel  of  improvement,  dash  the  countless 
stains* from  the  charts  which  they  are  holding  to  our 
eyes,  and  transform  their  blackened  pages  to  pure, 
spotless  records  of  truth*  and  virtue  1  Then  we  should 
no  longer  mark  the  blush  of  offended  modesty 
mantling  the  cheek  of  sensibility,  or  the  frown  of  dis 
approbation  clouding  the  pure  brow  of  refinement 
and  morality.  The  stage  would  then  become  the 
guardian  and  the  friend,  instead  of  the  fell  destroyer 
of  all  that  is  pure  and  virtuous  in  the  human  breast. 


CONTEMPLATION  OP  THE  HEAVENS. 

To  count  the  glittering  millions  of  the  sky,  to  mar 
shal  them  in  bright  array  before  us,  to  mark  the  bril 
liant  traces  of  a  Creator's  presence,  the  foot-prints  of 
the  Deity,  is  a  hallowed  and  sublime  employment  of 
the  soul ;  for  being  insensibly  led  onward  from  gazing 
upon  the  portals  of  heaven,  the  wonderful  threshold  of 
God's  wide  pavilion,  it  dares  to  lift  itself  in  pure  and 
unearthly  communion,  with  the  Holy  Spirit  that  in 
habits  there,  and  to  bow  in  adoration  and  praise  be 
fore  the  great  I  AM. 

To  a  feeling  mind,  the  heavens  unroll  a  vast  vol 
ume,  filled  with  subjects  of  wonder,  love,  arid  praise, 


246  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 

Wonder,  at  the  inconceivable  majesty  and  goodness 
of  the  great  Creator  of  so  vast,  so  splendid  a  system; 
love,  for  his  condescension  in  deigning  to  bend  his  at 
tention  to  so  insignificant  a  creature  as  man,  even  in 
the  meridian  of  his  earthly  glory;  and  praise,  for  his 
unchangeable  benevolence,  infinite  wisdom,  and  per 
fection.  What  hand  but  that  of  a  God  could  have 
formed  the  wide  solar  system  above  us?  what  voice  but 
that  of  Him  who  created  them,  could  bid  the  starry 
millions  move  on  for  thousands  of  ages  in  one  unbro 
ken  and  unceasing  march  ?  The  lights  of  heaven  are 
bright  and  beautiful,  still  they^are  but  feeble  beams 
from  the  everlasting  fountain  of  splendour,  or  wander- 
ing  sparks  of  Heaven's  dazzling  glory.  Well  indeed 
might  Zoroaster,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  heart,  wor 
ship  the  fires  of  Heaven  as  parts  of  that  ineffable  and 
never-dying  spirit  which  animates  and  lives  in  all, 
through  all  eternity. 

In  the  dark  ages  of  superstition  and  bigotry,  was  it 
strange  that  he  should  turn  in  disgust  from  the  sacri 
fices  of  blood,  from  horrid  images  the  disgraceful  pro 
ductions  of  weak  bewildered  minds,  to  a  fount  of  pure, 
unchanging,  living  light,  to  the  brilliant  fires  above 
him,  holding  their  unbroken  paths  through  Heaven, 
pointing  to  God's  throne,  and  whispering  to  the  heart 
of  something  still  more  bright,  more  beautiful  and 
holy? 


HE  ORIGIN  OF  CHIVALRY.  24' 


THE    ORIGIN    OF   CHIVALRY. 

When  society  first  began  to  form  itself,  rank  and 
authority  became  necessary  to  subdue  the  wi^d  and 
impetuous  passions  which  raged  unbridled  in  the 
savage  bosom  of  man ;  oppression  and  vassalage 
first  appeared  in  the  form  of  feudal  government,  each 
family  looked  up  to  its  head,  as  each  kingdom  does 
now,  to  his  sovereign, — his  will  was  absolute,  and 
his  power  unbounded  in  his  castle  and  dominions. 

In  this  way  the  rights  of  man  were  partially  se 
cured,  the  vassal  was  bound  to  serve  and  succour  his 
lord  in  the  hour  of  danger,  as  it  was  that  lord's  mity 
to  support  and  protect  his  serf; — but  in  those  ruae 
and  barbarous  ages,  where  was  weak  and  helpless 
woman  to  find  a  shelter  from  the  wild  and  lawless 
multitude?  and  what  tribunal  was  there  to  which  she 
could  appeal  if  injured  ?  when  man  was  contending 
with  man  for  superiority,  or  right,  where  could  she 
fly  for  redress?  could  the  feeble  voice  of  woman  be 
heard  amid  the  uproar  1  no  ! — but  it  arose,  though  in 
murmurs,  to  the  ear  or  ner  Maker,  and  that  very  evil 
which  menaced  her  destruction,  proved  her  blessing. 

In  the  dark  ages  of  the  world,  woman  held  not 
that  rank  in  society  which  a  more  enlightened  age 
has  allotted  her ;  she  was  deemed  merely  the  slave 
of  man's  tyrannical  will,  the  tool  of  his  pleasure — 
too  weak  to  defend  herself,  and  too  insignificant  to 
claim  the  protection  of  the  lords  of  the  creation. — 
As  the  sun  of  Religion  arose  upon  the  world,  the  dark 
clouds  of  contention  arose  with  its  light, — arms  were 
the  arguments  which  were  unanimously  chosen  to 
decide  every  controversy ;  the  sword  was  the  test  of 


248  LUCRETIA  MARIA  DAVIDSON. 


merit, — and  the  hand  which  wielded  it  with  the  great- 
est  dexterity  was  chosen  to  direct  the  community. 

The  youthful  soldier,  ardent  and  enthusiastic,  was 
ever  in  search  of  some  object  on  which  to  display 
his  valour :  the  fair  sex  at  length  caught  and  fixed 
his  attention, — tournaments  and  feats  of  arms  were 
instituted  to  display  his  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
beauty  and  virtue  in  distress,  and  love  and  religion 
were  blended — love  became  wildly  romantic,  religion 
was  enthusiastically  venerated — the  name  of  woman 
was  held  as  sacred  as  that  of  religion,  and  both,  as 
dear  to  the  heart  of  every  knight-errant  as  that  of 
the  idol,  Honour !  they  were  blended  with  each  other 
— the  passions  held  the  reins,  and  religion,  though 
contemplated  with  enthusiasm,  was  too  often  made 
to  bow  before  the  shrine  of  love  and  romance. 


THE  END. 


BIOGRAPHY 


AND 


POETICAL   REMAINS 


OF     THE     LATK 


MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON. 


BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Thon  wcrt  unfit  to  dwell  with  clay, 
For  sin  too  pure,  for  earth  too  bright ! 

And  Death,  who  call'd  thee  hence  away, 
Plac'rl  on  his  brow  a  ?em  of  light ! 

MARGARET  TO  HER   SIST-R 


&  tfeto  Isfcftfon,  rebfselr. 

NEW  YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  CLARK,  AUSTIN  &  CO. 

2  0  f>     BROADWAY. 

1851. 


ENTERED,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  forty-one,  by  WASHINGTON  IRVING,  in  the  Clerk's 
Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  Slates  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York 


BIOGRAPHY 


OF 


THE    LATE 


MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON, 


CONTENTS. 

BIOGRAPHY Page  17 

REMAINS 114 

A  Tale,  written  at  the  age  of  fifteen 115 

POETICAL  REMAINS 131 

To  my  Mother 131 

Pride  and  Modesty 131 

Versification  of  the  Twenty-third  Psalm 133 

To  Brother  L : 134 

For  Mamma 1 34 

To  Mamma 134 

To  a  Flower 135 

Stanzas 136 

Essay  on  Nature 1 36 

Home 137 

The  Majesty  of  God 137 

From  the  Forty-second  Psalm 137 

Hymn  of  the  Fire- Worshippers 138 

Enigma 139 

To  a  Little  Cousin  at  Christmas 139 

On  reading  Childe  Harold 140 

Invocation 1 40 


XTV  CONTENTS. 

Christmas  Hyrnn 140 

Evening 141 

Enigma 141 

To  the  Deity 142 

To  my  Sister  Lucretia 143 

Prophecy 143 

Enigma 144 

Essay  on  the  Sacred  Writings 144 

The  Destruction  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah 145 

Versification  from  Ossian 146 

To  my  dear  Mamma 146 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  F.  H.  Webb 147 

To  the  Evening  Star. . .' 148 

To  my  Father 149 

On  Nature 149 

To  the  Infidel 151 

On  the  Mind 152 

On  the  Hope  of  my  Brother's  Return 153 

To  my  Mother 154 

Boabdil  el  Chico's  Farewell  to  Granada 155 

The  Shunamite 161 

Belshazzar's  Feast 165 

To  my  Mother  on  Christmas  Day 168 

On  visiting  the  Panorama  of  Geneva 169 

The  Funeral  Bell 169 

Lines  on  receiving  a  Blank-book  from  my  Mother  ....  170 

To  Fancy 171 

Invocation  to  Spring 172 

From  the  One  Hundred  and  Thirty-ninth  Psalm 173 

Stanzas 173 

Letter  to  a  Poetical  Correspondent 174 


CONTENTS.  xv 

Stanzas 176 

Versification  from  Ossian 177 

To  the  Muse,  after  my  Brother's  Death 179 

Lines  on  hearing  some  Passages  read  from  Mrs.  Hemans' 

"  Records  of  Woman," 180 

An  Appeal  for  the  Blind 180 

The  Smiles  of  Nature 183 

On  a  Rose  received  from  Miss  Sedgvvick 185 

The  Church-Going  Bell 187 

Fragment 187 

Fragment 188 

On  returning  to  Ballston 189 

Twilight 191 

On  the  Departure  of  a  Brother 192 

Lines  written  after  reading  Accounts  of  the  Death  of 

Martyrs 193 

On  reading  Cowper's  Poems 194 

Stanzas 195 

Fragment 196 

Imitation  of  a  Scotch  Ballad 196 

Ere  Thou  didst  Form 197 

A  Fragment 198 

Fragment  of  the  Spectre  Bridegroom 198 

Elegy  upon  Leo,  an  old  House-Dog 202 

Morning 203 

Lines  written  after  she  herself  began  to  fear  that  her 

disease  was  past  remedy 203 

To  my  Old  Home  at  Pittsburgh 205 

Fame   205 

On  my  Mother's  Fiftieth  Birthday 206 

The  Storm  hath  Passed  By 207 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

Epitaph  on  a  Young  Robin 207 

To  a  Moonbeam 208 

Evening 209 

A  Poetical  Letter  to  Henrietta 211 

Lines  on  seeing  some  Fragments  from  the  Tomb  of 
Virgil   212 

A  Short  Sketch  of  the  most  important  ideas  contained  in 

Cousin's  "Introduction  to  the  History  of  Philosophy."  213 
Brief  Notes  from  Cousin's  Philosophy 214 

LENORE..  .  215 


BIOGRAPHY 


OP 


MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON 


THE  reading  world  has  long  set  a  cherishing  value  on  the 
name  of  Lucretia  Davidson,  a  lovely  American  girl,  who, 
after  giving  early,  promisse  of  rare  poetic  excellence,  was 
snatched  from  existence  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  her  age. 
An  interesting  biography  of  her  by  President  Morse  of  the 
American  Society  of  Arts,  was  published  shortly  after  her 
death ;  another  has  since  appeared  from  the  classic  pen  of 
Miss  Sedgwick,  and  her  name  has  derived  additional  celebrity 
in  Great,  Britain  from  an  able  article  by  Robert  Southey, 
inserted  some  years  since  in  the  London  Quarterly  Review. 

An  intimate  acquaintance  in  early  life  with  some  of  the 
relatives  of  Miss  Davidson  had  caused  me,  while  in  Europe, 
to  read  with  great  interest  everything  concerning  her  ;  when, 
therefore,  in  1833,  about  a  year  after  my  return  to  the  United 
States,  I  was  told,  while  in  New  York,  that  Mrs.  Davidson, 
the  mother  of  the  deceased,  was  in  the  city  and  desirous  of 
consulting  me  about  a  new  edition  of  her  daughter's  works,  I 
lost  no  time  in  waiting  upon  her.  Her  appearance  corresponded 
with  the  interesting  idea  given  of  her  in  her  daughter's  biog 
raphy  ;  she  was  feeble  and  emaciated,  and  supported  by 
pillows  in  an  easy  chair,  but  there  were  the  lingerings  of 
grace  and  beauty  in  her  form  and  features,  and  her  eye  still 
gleamed  with  intelligence  and  sensibility. 

While  conversing  with  her  on  the  subject  of  her  daughter's 
works,  I  observed  a  young  girl,  apparently  not  more  than 
eleven  years  of  age,  moving  quietly  about  her;  occasionally 
arranging  a  pillow,  and  at  the  same  time  listening  earnestly 
to  our  conversation.  There  was  an  intellectual  beauty  about 

(17) 


18  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

this  child  that  struck  me ;  and  that  was  heightened  '  by  a 
hlushing  diffidence  when  Mrs.  Davidson  presented  her  to  me 
as  her  daughter  Margaret.  Shortly  afterwards,  on  her  leaving 
the  room,  her  mother,  seeing  that  she  had  attracted  my  atten 
tion,  spoke  of  her  as  having  evinced  the  same  early  poetical 
talent  that  had  distinguished  her  sister,  and  as  evidence, 
showed  me  several  copies  of  verses  remarkable  for  such  a 
child.  On  further  inquiry  I  found  that  she  had  very  nearly 
the  same  moral  and  physical  constitution,  and  was  prone  to 
the  same  feverish  excitement  of  the  mind,  and  kindling  of  the 
imagination  that  had  acted  so  powerfully  on  the  fragile  frame 
of  her  sister  Lucretia.  I  cautioned  the  mother,  therefore, 
against  fostering  her  poetic  vein,  and  advised  such  studies  and 
pursuits  as  would  tend  to  strengthen  her  judgment,  calm  and 
regulate  the  sensibilities,  and  enlarge  that  common  sense 
which  is  the  only  safe  foundation  for  all  intellectual  super 
structure. 

I  found  Mrs.  Davidson  fully  aware  of  the  importance  of 
such  a  course  of  treatment,  and  disposed  to  pursue  it,  but 
saw  at  the  same  time  that  she  would  have  difficulty  to  carry 
it  into  effect ;  having  to  contend  with  the  additional  excitement 
produced  in  the  mind  of  this  sensitive  little  being  by  the 
example  of  her  sister,  and  the  intense  enthusiasm  she  evinced 
concerning  her. 

Three  years  elapsed  before  I  again  saw  the  subject  of  this 
memoir.  She  was  then  residing  with  her  mother  at  a  rural 
retreat  in  the  neighbourhood  of  New  York.  The  interval 
that  had  elapsed  had  rapidly  developed  the  powers  of  her 
mind,  and  heightened  the  loveliness  of  her  person,  but  my 
apprehensions  had  been  verified.  The  soul  was  wearing  out 
the  body.  Preparations  were  making  to  take  her  on  a  tour 
for  the  benefit  of  her  health,  and  her  mother  appeared  to 
flatter  herself  that  it  might  prove  efficacious  ;  but  when  I 
noticed  the  fragile  delicacy  of  her  form,  the  hectic  bloom  of 
her  cheek,  and  the  almost  unearthly  lustre  of  her  eye,  I  felt 
convinced  that  she  was  not  long  for  this  world ;  in  truth,  she 
already  appeared  more  spiritual  than  mortal.  We  parted, 
and  I  never  saw  her  more.  Within  three  years  afterwards, 
a  number  of  manuscripts  were  placed  in  my  hands,  as  all 
that  was  left  of  her.  They  were  accompanied  by  copious 
memoranda  concerning  her,  furnished  by  her  mother  at  my 
request.  From  these  I  have  digested  and  arranged  the  fol 
lowing  particulars,  adopting  in  many  places  the  original 


BIOGRAPHY.  19 

manuscript,  without  alteration.  In  fact,  the  narrative  will  be 
found  almost  as  illustrative  of  the  character  of  the  mother  as 
of  the  child  ;  they  were  singularly  identified  in  taste,  feelings, 
arid  pursuits  ;  tenderly  entwined  together  by  maternal  and 
filial  affection ;  they  reflected  an  inexpressibly  touching  grace 
and  interest  upon  each  other  by  this  holy  relationship,  and,  to 
my  mind,  it  would  be  marring  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
affecting  groups  in  the  history  of  modern  literature,  to  sunder 
them. 

Margaret  Miller  Davidson,  the  youngest  daughter  of  Dr. 
Oliver  and  Mrs.  Margaret  Davidson,  was  born  at  the  family 
residence  on  Lake  Champlain,  in  the  village  of  Pittsburgh, 
on  the  26th  of  March,  1823.  She  evinced  fragility  of  con 
stitution  from  her  very  birth.  Her  sister  Lucretia,  whose 
brief  poetical  career  has  been  so  celebrated  in  literary  history, 
was  her  early  and  fond  attendant,  and  some  of  her  most  popu 
lar  lays  were  composed  with  the  infant  sporting  in  her  arms. 
She  used  to  gaze  upon  her  little  sister  with  intense  delight, 
and,  remarking  the  uncommon  brightness  and  beauty  of  her 
eyes,  would  exclaim,  "She  must,  she  will  be  a  poet!"  The 
exclamation  was  natural  enough  in  an  enthusiastic  girl  who 
regarded  every  thing  through  the  medium  of  her  ruling  pas 
sion  ;  but  it  was  treasured  up  by  her  mother,  and  considered 
almost  prophetic.  Lucretia  did  not  live  to  see  her  prediction 
verified.  Her  brief  sojourn  upon  earth  was  over  before  Mar 
garet  was  quite  two  years  and  a  half  old ;  yet  to  use  her 
mother's  fond  expressions,  "  On  ascending  to  the  skies,  it 
seemed  as  if  her  poetic  mantle  fell  like  a  robe  of  light  on  her 
infant  sister." 

Margaret,  from  the  first  dawnings  of  intellect,  gave  evidence 
of  being  no  common  child :  her  ideas  and  expressions  were 
not  like  those  of  other  children,  and  often  startled  by  their 
precocity.  Her  sister's  death  had  made  a  strong  impression 
on  her,  and,  though  so  extremely  young,  she  already  under 
stood  and  appreciated  Lucretia's  character.  An  evidence  of 
this,  and  of  the  singular  precocity  of  thought  and  expression 
just  noticed,  occurred  but  a  few  months  afterwards.  As 
Mrs.  Davidson  was  seated,  at  twilight,  conversing  with  a 
female  friend,  Margaret,  entered  the  room  with  a  light  elastic 
step,  for  which  she  was  remarked. 

"  That  child  never  walks,"  said  the  lady;  then  turning  to 
her,  "  Margaret,  where  are  you  flying  now?"  said  she. 


20  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  To  heaven !"  replied  she,  pointing  up  with  her  finger 
**  to  meet  my  sister  Lucretia,  when  I  get  my  new  wings." 
"  Your  new  wings  !    When  will  you  get  them  ?" 
"  Oh  soon,  very  soon  ;  and  then  I  shall  fly  !" 
"  She  loved,"  says  her  mother,  "  to  sit  hour  after  hour  on 
a  cushion  at  my  feet,  her  little  arms  resting  upon  my  lap,  and 
her  full  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  mine,  listening  to  anecdotes  of 
her  sister's  life  and  details  of  the  events  which  preceded  her 
death,  often  exclaiming,  while  her  face  beamed  with  mingled 
emotions,  '  Oh  mamma,  I  will  tty  to  fill  her  place !    Oh  teach 
me  to  be  like  her !' " 

Much  of  Mrs.  Davidson's  time  was  now  devoted  to  her 
daily  instruction  ;  noticing,  however,  her  lively  sensibility,  the 
rapid  developement  of  her  mind,  and  her  eagerness  for  know 
ledge,  her  lessons  were  entirely  oral,  for  she  feared  for  the 
present  to  teach  her  to  read,  lest  by  too  early  and  severe 
application,  she  should  injure  her  delicate  frame.  She  had 
nearly  attained  her  fourth  year  before  she  was  taught  to  spell. 
Ill  health  then  obliged  Mrs.  Davidson,  for  the  space  of  a  year, 
to  entrust  her  tuition  to  a  lady  in  Canada,  a  valued  friend, 
who  had  other  young  girls  under  her  care.  When  she  re 
turned  home  she  could  read  fluently,  and  had  commenced 
lessons  in  writing.  It  was  now  decided  that  she  should  not 
be  placed  in  any  public  seminary,  but  that  her  education 
should  be  conducted  by  her  mother.  The  task  was  rendered 
delightful  by  the  docility  of  the  pupil ;  by  her  affectionate 
feelings,  and  quick  kindling  sensibilities.  This  maternal  in 
struction,  while  it  kept  her  apart  from  the  world,  and  fostered 
a  singular  purity  and  innocence  of  thought,  contributed  greatly 
to  enhance  her  imaginative  powers,  for  the  mother  partook 
largely  of  the  poetical  temperament  of  the  child ;  it  was,  in 
fact,  one  poetical  spirit  ministering  to  another. 

Among  the  earliest  indications  of  the  poetical  character  in 
this  child  were  her  perceptions  of  the  beauty  of  natural 
scenery.  Her  home  was  in  a  picturesque  neighbourhood, 
calculated  to  awaken  and  foster  such  perceptions.  The  fol 
lowing  description  of  it  is  taken  from  one  of  her  own  writings : 
"  There  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Saranac  a  small  neat  cot 
tage,  which  peeped  forth  from  the  surrounding  foliage,  the 
image  of  rural  quiet  and  contentment.  An  old-fashioned 
piazza  extended  along  the  front,  shaded  with  vines  and  honey 
suckles ;  the  turf  on  the  bank  of  the  river  was  of  the  richest 
and  brightest  emerald ;  and  the  wild  rose  and  sweet  briar, 


BIOGRAPHY.  21 

which  twined  over  the  neat  enclosure,  seemed  to  bloom  with 
more  delicate  freshness  and  perfume  within  the  bounds  of  this 
earthly  paradise.  The  scenery  around  was  wildly  yet  beau 
tifully  romantic;  the  clear  blue  river  glancing  and  sparkling 
at  its  feet,  seemed  only  as  a  preparation  for  another  and  more 
magnificent  view,  when  the  stream,  gliding  on  to  the  west, 
was  buried  in  the  broad  white  bosom  of  Charnplain,  which 
stretched  back  wave  after  wave  in  the  distance,  until  lost  in 
faint  blue  mists  that  veiled  the  sides  of  its  guardian  mountains, 
seeming  more  lovely  from  their  indistinctness." 

Such  were  the  natural  scenes  which  presented  themselves 
to  her  dawning  perceptions,  and  she  is  said  to  have  evinced 
from  her  earliest  childhood,  a  remarkable  sensibility  to  their 
charms.  A  beautiful  tree,  or  shrub,  or  flower,  would  fill  her 
with  delight ;  she  would  note  with  surprising  discrimination 
the  various  effects  of  the  weather  upon  the  surrounding  land 
scape  ;  the  mountains  wrapped  in  clouds ;  the  torrents  roaring 
down  their  sides  in  times  of  tempest ;  the  "  bright  warm  sun 
shine,"  the  "cooling  showers,"  the  "pale  cold  moon,"  for 
such  was  already  her  poetical  phraseology.  A  bright  starlight 
night,  also,  would  seem  to  awaken  a  mysterious  rapture  in 
her  infant  bosom,  and  one  of  her  early  expressions  in  speaking 
of  the  stars  was,  that  they  "  shone  like  the  eyes  of  angels." 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  the  maternal  instruction 
was  in  guiding  these  kindling  perceptions  from  nature  up  to 
nature's  God. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  observes  her  mother,  "  at  what  age  her 
religious  impressions  were  imbibed.  They  seemed  to  be  inter 
woven  with  her  existence.  From  the  very  first  exercise  of 
reason  she  evinced  strong  devotional  feelings,  and  although 
she  loved  play,  she  would  at  any  time  prefer  seating  herself 
beside  me,  and,  with  every  faculty  absorbed  in  the  subject, 
listen  while  I  attempted  to  recount  the  wonders  of  Providence, 
and  point  out  the  wisdom  and  benevolence  of  God,  as  mani 
fested  in  the  works  of  creation.  Her  young  heart  would  swell 
with  rapture,  and  the  tear  would  tremble  in  her  eye,  when  I 
explained  to  her,  that  he  who  clothed  the  trees  with  verdure, 
and  gave  the  rose  its  bloom,  had  also  created  her  with  capaci 
ties  to  enjoy  their  beauties  :  that  the  same  power  which  clothed 
the  mountains  with  sublimity,  made  her  happiness  his  daily 
care.  Thus  a  sentiment  of  gratitude  and  affection  towards 
the  Creator  entered  into  all  her  emotions  of  delight  at  the 
wonders  and  beauties  of  creation." 
2 


22  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

There  is  nothing  more  truly  poetical  than  religion  when 
properly  inculcated,  and  it  will  be  found  that  this  early  piety, 
thus  amiably  instilled,  had  the  happiest  effect  upon  her  through 
out  life;  elevating  and  ennobling  her  genius;  lifting  her  above 
every  thing  gross  and  sordid  ;  attuning  her  thoughts  to  pure 
and  lofty  themes;  heightening  rather  than  impairing  her  en 
joyments,  and  at  all  times  giving  an  ethereal  lightness  to  her 
spirit.  To  use  her  mother's  words,  "  she  was  like  a  bird  on 
the  wing,  her  fairy  form  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  earth 
as  she  passed."  She  was  at  times  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  from 
the  excitement  of  her  imagination  and  the  exuberance  of  her 
pleasurable  sensations.  In  such  moods  every  object  of  natural 
beauty  inspired  a  degree  of  rapture,  always  mingled  with  a 
feeling  of  gratitude  to  the  Being  "  who  had  made  so  many 
beautiful  things  for  her."  In  such  moods  too  her  little  heart 
would  overflow  with  love  to  all  around  ;  indeed,  adds  her 
mother,  to  love  and  be  beloved  was  necessary  to  her  existence. 
Private  prayer  became  a  habit  with  her  at  a  very  early  age  ; 
it  was  almost  a  spontaneous  expression  of  her  feelings,  the 
breathings  of  an  affectionate  and  delighted  heart. 

"  By  the  time  she  was  six  years  old,"  says  Mrs,  Davidson, 
"  her  language  assumed  an  elevated  tone,  and  her  mind  seemed 
filled  with  poetic  imagery,  blended  with  veins  of  religious 
thought.  At  this  period  I  was  chiefly  confined  to  my  room 
by  debility.  She  was  my  companion  and  friend,  and,  as  the 
greater  part  of  my  time  was  devoted  to  her  instruction,  she 
advanced  rapidly  in  her  studies.  She  read  not  only  well,  but 
elegantly.  Her  love  of  reading  amounted  almost  to  a  passion, 
and  her  intelligence  surpassed  belief.  Strangers  viewed  with 
astonishment  a  child  little  more  than  six  years  old  reading 
with  enthusiastic  delight  Thomson's  Seasons,  the  Pleasures 
of  Hope,  Cowper's  Task,  the  writings  of  Milton,  Byron,  and 
Scott,  and  marking,  with  taste  and  discrimination,  the  pas 
sages  which  struck  her.  The  sacred  writings  were  her  daily 
studies;  with  her  little  Bible  on  her  lap,  she  usually  seated 
herself  near  me,  and  there  read  a  chapter  from  the  holy 
volume.  This  was  a  duty  which  she  was  taught  not  to  per 
form  lightly,  and  we  have  frequently  spent  two  hours  in  read 
ing;  and  remarking  upon  the  contents  of  a  chapter." 

A  tendency  to  "  lisp  in  numbers,"  was  observed  in  her 
about  this  time.  She  frequently  made  little  impromptus  in 
rhyme,  without  seeming  to  be  conscious  that  there  was  any 
hing  peculiar  in  the  habit.  On  one  occasion,  while  standing 


BIOGRAPHY.  23 

by  a  window  at  which  her  mother  was  seated,  and  looking 
out  upon  a  lovely  landscape,  she  exclaimed — 

"  See  those  lofty,  those  grand  trees  ; 
Their  high  tops  waving  in  the  breeze  ; 
They  cast  their  shadows  on  the  ground, 
And  spread  their  fragrance  all  around." 

Her  mother,  who  had  several  times  been  struck  by  little 
rhyming  ejaculations  of  the  kind,  now  handed  her  writing 
implements,  and  requested  her  to  write  down  what  she  had 
just  uttered.  She  appeared  surprised  at  the  request,  but 
complied  ;  writing  it  down  as  if  it  had  been  prose,  without 
arranging  it  in  a  stanzn,  or  commencing  the  lines  with 
capitals ;  not  seeming  aware  that  she  had  rhymed.  The 
notice  attracted  to  this  impromptu,  however,  had  its  effect, 
whether  for  good  or  for  evil.  From  that  time  she  wrote  some 
scraps  of  poetry,  or  rather  rhyme,  every  day,  which  would 
be  treasured  up  with  delight  by  her  mother,  who  watched  with 
trembling,  yet  almost  fascinated  anxiety,  these  premature 
blossomings  of  poetic  fancy. 

On  another  occasion,  towards  sunset,  as  Mrs.  Davidson 
was  seated  by  the  window  of  her  bed-room,  little  Margaret 
ran  in,  greatly  excited,  exclaiming  that  there  was  an  awful 
thundergust  rising,  and  that  the  clouds  were  black  as  midnight. 

"  I  gently  drew  her  to  my  bosom,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson, 
"and  after  I  had  soothed  her  agitation,  she  seated  herself  at 
my  feet,  laid  her  head  in  my  lap,  and  gazed  at  the  rising 
storm.  As  the  thunder  rolled,  she  clung  closer  to  my  knees, 
and  when  the  tempest  burst  in  all  its  fury,  I  felt  her  tremble. 
I  passed  my  arms  round  her,  but  soon  found  it  was  not  fear 
that  agitated  her.  Her  eyes  kindled  as  she  watched  the  war 
ring  elements,  until,  extending  her  hand,  she  exclaimed, 

"  The  lightning  plays  along  the  sky, 
The  thunder  rolls  and  bursts  from  high  ! 
Jehovah's  voice  amid  the  storm 
I  heard — methinks  I  see  his  form, 
As  riding  on  the  clouds  of  even, 
He  spreads  his  glory  o'er  the  heaven. 

This  likewise  her  mother  made  her  write  down  at  the 
instant ;  thus  giving  additional  impulse  to  this  growing  inclina 
tion. 

I  shall  select  one  more  instance  of  this  early  facility  at 
numbers,  especially  as  it  involves  a  case  of  conscience,  credit 
able  to  her  early  powers  of  self-examination.  She  had  been 


24  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

reproved  by  her  mother  for  some  trifling  act  of  disobedience 
but  aggravated  her  fault  by  attempting  to  justify  it ;  she  was 
therefore,  banished  to  her  bed-room  until  she  should  become 
sensible  of  her  error.  Two  hours  elapsed,  without  her  evincing 
any  disposition  to  yield  :  on  the  contrary,  she  persisted  in 
vindicating  her  conduct,  and  accused  her  mother  of  injustice. 

Mrs.  Davidson  mildly  reasoned  with  her ;  entreated  her  to 
examine  the  spirit  by  which  she  was  actuated ;  placed  before 
her  the  example  of  our  Saviour  in  submitting  to  the  will  of 
his  parents ;  and,  exhorting  her  to  pray  to  God  to  assist  her, 
and  to  give  her  meekness  and  humility,  left  her  again  to  her 
reflections. 

"  An  hour  or  two  afterwards,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  she 
desired  I  would  admit  her.  I  sent  word  that,  when  she  was 
in  a  proper  frame  of  mind  I  would  be  glad  to  see  her.  The 
little  creature  came  in,  bathed  in  tears,  threw  her  arms  round 
my  neck,  and  sobbing  violently,  put  into  my  hands  the  fol 
lowing  verses : 

"  Forgiven  by  my  Saviour  dear, 

For  all  the  wrongs  I've  done, 
What  other  wish  could  I  have  here? 
Alas  there  yet  is  one. 

I  know  my  God  has  pardon'd  me, 

I  know  he  loves  me  still; 
I  wish  forgiven  I  may  be, 

By  her  I've  used  so  ill. 

Good  resolutions  I  have  made, 

And  thought  I  loved  my  Lord  ; 
But  ah !  I  trusted  in  myself, 

And  broke  my  foolish  word. 

But  give  me  strength,  oh  Lord,  to  trust 

For  help  alone  in  thee ; 
Thou  know'st  my  inmost  feelings  best, 

Oh  teach  me  to  obey." 

We  have  spoken  of  the  buoyancy  of  Margaret's  feelings, 
and  the  vivid  pleasure  she  received  from  external  objects;  she 
entered,  however,  but  little  into  the  amusements  of  the  few 
children  with  whom  she  associated,  nor  did  she  take  much 
delight  in  their  society ;  she  was  conscious  of  a  difference 
between  them  and  herself,  but  scarce  knew  in  what  it  con- 
sisted.  Their  sports  seemed  to  divert  for  a  while,  but  soon 
wearied  her,  and  she  would  fly  to  a  book,  or  seek  the  con 
versation  of  persons  of  maturer  age  and  mind.  Her  highr>t 
pleasures  were  intellectual.  She  seemed  to  live  in  a  world 
of  her  own  creation,  surrounded  by  the  images  of  her  own 


BIOGRAPHY.  25 

fancy.  Her  own  childish  amusements  had  originality  and 
freshness,  and  called  into  action  the  mental  powers,  so  as  to 
render  them  interesting  to  persons  of  all  ages.  If  at  play 
with  her  little  dog  or  kitten,  she  would  carry  on  imaginary 
dialogues  between  them ;  always  ingenious,  and  sometimes 
even  brilliant.  If  her  doll  happened  to  be  the  plaything  of 
the  moment,  it  was  invested  with  a  character  exhibiting  know 
ledge  of  history,  and  all  the  powers  of  memory  which  a  child 
can  be  supposed  to  exercise.  Whether  it  was  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots,  or  her  rival,  Elizabeth,  or  the  simple  cottage  maiden, 
each  character  was  maintained  with  propriety.  In  telling 
stories,  (an  amusement  all  children  are  fond  of,)  hers  were 
always  original,  and  of  a  kind  calculated  to  elevate  the  minds 
of  the  children  present,  giving  them  exalted  views  of  truth, 
honour,  and  integrity;  and  the  sacrifice  of  all  selfish  feelings 
to  the  happiness  of  others  was  illustrated  in  the  heroine  of 
her  story. 

This  talent  for  extemporaneous  story-telling  increased  with 
exercise,  until  she  would  carry  on  a  narrative  for  hours  toge 
ther  ;  and  in  nothing  was  the  precocity  of  her  inventive  powers 
more  apparent  than  in  the  discrimination  and  individuality  of 
her  fictitious  characters ;  the  consistency  with  which  they 
were  sustained ;  the  graphic  force  of  her  descriptions ;  the 
elevation  of  her  sentiments,  and  the  poetic  beauty  of  her 
imagery. 

This  early  gift  caused  her  to  be  sought  by  some  of  the 
neighbours ;  who  would  lead  her  unconsciously  into  an  exer 
tion  of  her  powers.  Nothing  was  done  by  her  from  vanity 
or  a  disposition  to  "  show  off,"  but  she  would  become  excited 
by  their  attention  and  the  pleasure  they  seemed  to  derive  from 
her  narration.  When  thus  excited,  a  whole  evening  would 
be  occupied  by  one  of  her  stories ;  and  when  the  servant  came 
to  take  her  home,  she  would  observe,  in  the  phraseology  of 
the  magazines,  "  the  story  to  be  continued  in  our  next." 

Between  the  age  of  six  and  seven  she  entered  upon  a  course 
of  English  grammar,  geography,  history,  and  rhetoric,  still 
under  the  direction  and  superintendence  of  her  mother ;  but 
such  was  her  ardour  and  application,  that  it  was  necessary  to 
keep  her  in  check,  lest  a  too  intense  pursuit  of  knowledge 
should  impair  her  delicate  constitution.  She  was  not  required 
to  commit  her  lessons  to  memory,  but  to  give  the  substance 
of  them  in  her  own  language,  and  to  explain  their  purport  ; 
fhus  she  learnt  nothing  by  rote,  but  every  thing  understand- 
2* 


26  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

ingly,  and  soon  acquired  a  knowledge  of  the  rudiments  of 
English  education.  The  morning  lessons  completed,  the  rest 
of  the  day  was  devoted  to  recreation  ;  occasionally  sporting 
and  gathering  wild  flowers  on  the  banks  of  the  Saranac  ; 
though  the  extreme  delicacy  of  her  constitution  prevented  her 
taking  as  much  exercise  as  her  mother  could  have  wished. 

In  1830  an  English  gentleman,  who  had  been  strongly  in 
terested  and  affected  by  the  perusal  of  the  biography  and 
writings  of  Lucretia  Davidson,  visited  Pittsburgh,  in  the 
course  of  a  journey  from  Quebec  to  New  York,  to  see  the 
place  where  she  was  born  and  had  been  buried.  While  there, 
he  sought  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Davidson,  and  his  appear 
ance  and  deportment  were  such  as  at  once  to  inspire  respect 
and  confidence.  He  had  much  to  ask  about  the  object  of  his 
literary  pilgrimage,  but  his  inquiries  were  managed  with  the 
most  considerate  delicacy.  While  he  was  thus  conversing 
with  Mrs.  Davidson,  the  little  Margaret,  then  about  seven 
years  of  age,  came  tripping  into  the  room,  with  a  book  in 
one  hand  and  a  pencil  in  the  other.  He  was  charmed  with 
her  bright  intellectual  countenance,  but  still  more  with  finding 
that  the  volume  in  her  hand  was  a  copy  of  Thomson's  Sea 
sons,  in  which  she  had  been  marking  with  a  pencil  the  pas 
sages  which  most  pleased  her.  He  drew  her  to  him ;  his 
frank,  winning  manner  soon  banished  her  timidity ;  he  en 
gaged  her  in  conversation,  and  found,  to  his  astonishment,  a 
counterpart  of  Lucretia  Davidson  before  him.  His  visit  was 
necessarily  brief;  but  his  manners,  appearance,  and  conver 
sation,  and,  above  all,  the  extraordinary  interest  with  which 
he  had  regarded  her,  sank  deep  in  the  affectionate  heart  of 
the  child,  and  inspired  a  friendship  that  remained  one  of  her 
strongest  attachments  through  the  residue  of  her  transient 
existence. 

The  delicate  state  of  her  health  this  summer  rendered  it 
advisable  to  take  her  to  the  Saratoga  Springs,  the  waters  of 
which  appeared  to  have  a  beneficial  effect.  After  remaining 
here  some  time,  she  accompanied  her  parents  to  New  York. 
It  was  her  first  visit  to  the  city,  and  of  course,  fruitful  of 
wonder  and  excitement ;  a  new  world  seemed  to  open  before 
her;  new  scenes,  new  friends,  new  occupations,  new  sources 
of  instruction  and  enjoyment ;  her  young  heart  was  overflow 
ing,  and  her  head  giddy  with  delight.  To  complete  her  hap 
piness,  she  again  met  with  her  English  friend,  whom  she 
greeted  with  as  much  eagerness  and  joy  as  if  he  had  been  a 


BIOGRAPHY.  27 

companion  of  her  own  age.  He  manifested  the  same  interest 
in  her  that  he  had  shown  at  Pittsburgh,  and  took  great  plea 
sure  in  accompanying  her  to  many  of  the  exhibitions  and 
places  of  intellectual  gratification  of  the  metropolis,  and  mark 
ing  their  effects  upon  her  fresh,  unhackneyed  feelings  and 
intelligent  mind.  In  company  with  him,  she,  for  the  first  and 
only  time  in  her  life,  visited  the  theatre.  It  was  a  scene  of 
magic  to  her,  or  rather,  as  she  said,  like  a  "  brilliant  dream." 
She  often  recurred  to  it  with  vivid  recollection,  and  the  effect 
of  it,upon  her  imagination  was  subsequently  apparent  in  the 
dramatic  nature  of  some  of  her  writings. 

One  of  her  greatest  subjects  of  regret  on  leaving  New 
York,  was  the  parting  with  her  intellectual  English  friend ; 
but  she  was  consoled  by  his  promising  to  pay  Plattsburgh 
another  visit,  and  to  pass  a  few  days  there  previous  to  his 
departure  for  England.  Soon  after  returning  to  Pittsburgh, 
however,  Mrs.  Davidson  received  a  letter  from  him  saying 
that  he  was  unexpectedly  summoned  home,  and  would  have 
to  defer  his  promised  visit  until  his  return  to  the  United  States. 

It  was  a  severe  disappointment  to  Margaret,  who  had  con 
ceived  for  him  an  enthusiastic  friendship  remarkable  in  such 
a  child.  His  letter  was  accompanied  by  presents  of  books 
and  various  tasteful  remembrances,  but  the  sight  of  them 
only  augmented  her  affliction.  She  wrapped  them  all  care 
fully  in  paper,  and  treasured  them  up  in  a  particular  drawer, 
where  they  were  daily  visited,  and  many  a  tear  shed  over 
them. 

The  excursions  to  Saratoga  and  New  York  had  improved 
her  health,  and  given  a  fresh  impulse  to  her  mind.  She  re 
sumed  her  studies  with  great  eagerness  ;  her  spirits  rose  with 
mental  exercise ;  she  soon  was  in  one  of  her  veins  of  intel 
lectual  excitement.  She  read,  she  wrote,  she  danced,  she 
sang,  and  was  for  the  time  the  happiest  of  the  happy.  In  the 
freshness  of  early  morning,  and  towards  sunset,  when  the 
heat  of  the  day  was  over,  she  would  stroll  on  the  banks  of 
the  Saranac,  following  its  course  to  where  it  pours  itself  into 
the  beautiful  Bay  of  Cumberland  in  Lake  Champlain.  There 
the  rich  variety  of  scenery  which  bursts  upon  the  eye  ;  the 
islands,  scattered,  like  so  many  gems,  on  the  broad  bosom  of 
the  lake;  the  Green  Mountains  of  Vermont  beyond,  clothed 
in  the  atmospherical  charms  of  our  magnificent  climate;  all 
these  would  inspire  a  degree  of  poetic  rapture  in  her  mind 
mingled  with  a  sacred  melancholy ;  for  these  were  scenes 


28  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

which  had  often  awakened  the  enthusiasm  of  her  deceased 
sister  Lucretia. 

Her  mother,  in  her  memoranda,  gives  a  picture  of  her  in 
one  of  those  excited  moods. 

*'  After  an  evening's  stroll  along  the  river  bank,  we  seated 
ourselves  by  a  window  to  observe  the  effect  of  the  full  moon 
rising  over  the  waters.  A  holy  calm  seemed  to  pervade  all 
nature.  With  her  head  resting  on  my  bosom,  and  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  firmament,  she  pointed  to  a  particularly  bright 
star,  and  said : 

"  '  Behold  that  bright  and  sparkling  star 
Which  setteth  as  a  queen  afar : 
Over  the  blue  and  spangled  heaven 
It  sheds  its  glory  in  the  even ! 

"  '  Our  Jesus  made  that  sparkling  star 
Which  shines  and  twinkles  from  afar. 
Oh  !  't  was  that  bright  and  glorious  gem 
Which  shone  o'er  ancient  Bethlehem !'  " 

"  The  summer  passed  swiftly  away,"  continues  her  mother, 
"  yet  her  intellectual  advances  seemed  to  outstrip  the  wings 
of  time.  As  the  autumn  approached,  however,  I  could  plainly 
perceive  that  her  health  was  again  declining.  The  chilly 
winds  from  the  lake  were  too  keen  for  her  weak  lungs.  My 
own  health,  too,  was  failing ;  it  was  determined,  therefore, 
that  we  should  pass  the  winter  with  my  eldest  daughter,  Mrs. 

T ,  who  resided  in  Canada,  in  the  same  latitude  it  is  true, 

but  in  an  inland  situation.  This  arrangement  was  very 
gratifying  to  Margaret ;  and,  had  my  health  improved  by  the 
change,  as  her  own  did,  she  would  have  been  perfectly  happy. 
During  this  period  she  attended  to  a  regular  course  of  study, 
under  my  direction ;  for,  though  confined  wholly  to  my  bed, 
and  suffering  extremely  from  pain  and  debility,  Heaven  in 
mercy  preserved  my  mental  faculties  from  the  wreck  that 
disease  had  made  of  my  physical  powers."  The  same  plan 
as  heretofore  was  pursued.  Nothing  was  learnt  by  rote,  and 
the  lessons  were  varied  to  prevent  fatigue  and  distaste,  though 
study  was  always  with  her  a  pleasing  duty  rather  than  an 
arduous  task.  After  she  had  studied  her  lessons  by  herself, 
she  would  discuss  them  in  conversation  with  her  mother.  Her 
reading  was  under  the  same  guidance.  "  I  selected  her 
books,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  with  much  care,  and  to  my 
surprise  found  that,  notwithstanding  her  poetical  temperament, 
she  had  a  high  relish  for  history,  and  that  she  would  read 


BIOGRAPHY.  29 

with  as  much  apparent  interest  an  abstruse  treatise  that  called 
forth  the  reflecting  powers,  as  she  did  poetry  or  works  of  the 
imagination.  In  polite  literature  Addison  was  her  favourite 
author,  but  Shakspeare  she  dwelt  upon  with  enthusiasm.  She 
was  restricted,  however,  to  certain  marked  portions  of  this 
inimitable  writer ;  and  having  been  told  that  it  was  not  proper 
for  her  to  read  the  whole,  such  was  her  innate  delicacy  and 
her  sense  of  duty,  that  she  never  overstepped  the  prescribed 
boundaries." 

In  the  intervals  of  study  she  amused  herself  with  drawing, 
for  which  she  had  a  natural  talent,  and  soon  began  to  sketch 
with  considerable  skill.  As  her  health  had  improved  jsince 
her  removal  to  Canada,  she  frequently  partook  of  the  favour- 
ite  winter  recreation  of  a  drive  in  a  traineau  or  sleigh,  in 
company  with  her  sister  and  her  brother-in-law,  and  com 
pletely  enveloped  in  furs  and  buffalo-robes ;  and  nothing  put 
her  in  a  finer  flow  of  spirits,  than  thus  skimming  along,  in 
bright  January  weather,  on  the  sparkling  snow,  to  the  rnerry 
music  of  the  jingling  sleigh-bells.  The  winter  passed  away 
without  any  improvement  in  the  health  of  Mrs.  Davidson  ; 
indeed  she  continued  a  helpless  invalid,  confined  to  her  bed, 
for  eighteen  months ;  during  all  which  time  little  Margaret 
was  her  almost  constant  companion  and  attendant. 

"  Her  tender  solicitude,"  writes  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  endeared 
her  to  me  beyond  any  other  earthly  thing ;  although  under 
the  roof  of  a  beloved  and  affectionate  daughter,  and  having 
constantly  with  me  an  experienced  and  judicious  nurse,  yet 
the  soft  and  gentle  voice  of  my  little  darling,  was  more  than 
medicine  to  my  worn-out  frame.  If  her  delicate  hard 
smoothed  my  pillow,  it  was  soft  to  my  aching  temples,  and 
her  sweet  smile  would  cheer  me  in  the  lowest  depths  of 
despondency.  She  would  draw  for  me — read  to  me — and 
often,  when  writing  at  her  little  table,  would  surprise  me  by 
some  tribute  of  love,  which  never  failed  to  operate  as  a  cordial 
to  my  heart.  At  a  time  when  my  life  was  despaired  of,  she 
wrote  the  following  lines  while  sitting  at  my  bed — 

"  '  I  '11  to  thy  arms  in  rapture  fly, 

And  wipe  the  tear  that  dims  thine  eye  ; 
Thy  pleasure  will  be  my  delight, 
Till  thy  pure  spirit  takes  its  flight. 

"  '  When  left  alone — when  thou  art  gone, 
Yet  still  I  will  not  feel  alone  ; 
Thy  spirit  still  will  hover  near, 
And  guard  thy  orphan  daughter  dear  !'  " 


30  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

In  this  trying  moment,  when  Mrs.  Davidson  herself  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  recovery,  one  of  the  most  touching  sights 
was  to  see  this  affectionate  and  sensitive  child  tasking  herself 
to  achieve  a  likeness  of  her  mother,  that  it  might  remain  with 
her  as  a  memento.  "  How  often  would  she  sit  by  my  bed," 
says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "striving  to  sketch  features  that  had 
been  vainly  attempted  by  more  than  one  finished  artist;  and 
when  she  found  that  she  had  failed,  and  that  the  likeness 
could  not  be  recognised,  she  would  put  her  arms  around  my 
neck  and  weep,  and  say,  '  Oh  dear  mamma,  I  shall  lose  you, 
and  not  even  a  sketch  of  your  features  will  be  left  me !  and 
if  I  live  to  be  a  woman,  perhaps  I  shall  even  forget  how  you 
looked  !'  This  idea  gave  her  great  distress,  sweet  lamb !  I 
then  little  thought  this  bosom  would  have  been  her  dying 
pillow !" 

After  being  reduced  to  the  very  verge  of  the  grave,  Mrs. 
Davidson  began  slowly  to  recover,  but  a  long  time  elapsed 
before  she  was.  restored  to  her  usual  degree  of  health.  Mar 
garet  in  the  meantime  increased  in  strength  and  stature;  she 
still  looked  fragile  and  delicate,  but  she  was  always  cheerful 
and  buoyant.  To  relieve  the  monotony  of  her  life,  which 
had  been  passed  too  much  in  a  sick  chamber,  and  to  preserve 
her  spirits  fresh  and  elastic,  little  excursions  were  devised  for 
her  about  the  country,  to  Missique  Bay,  St.  Johns,  Alburgh, 
Champlain,  &c.  The  following  lines,  addressed  to  her  mother 
on  one  of  these  occasional  separations,  will  serve  as  a  specimen 
of  her  compositions  in  this  the  eighth  year  of  her  age,  and 
of  the  affectionate  current  of  her  feelings. 

"  Farewell,  dear  mother  !  for  a  while 
I  must  resign  thy  plaintive  smile  ; 
May  angels  watch  thy  couch  of  woe, 
And  joys  unceasing  round  thee  flow. 

"  May  the  Almighty  Father  spread 
His  sheltering  wings  above  thy  head  ; 
It  is  not  long  that  we  must  part, 
Then  cheer  thy  downcast,  drooping  heart. 

"  Remember,  oh  remember  me. 
Unceasing  is  my  love  for  thee  ; 
When  death  shall  sever  earthly  ties, 
When  thy  loved  form  all  senseless  lies. 

"  Oh  that  my  soul  with  thine  could  flee, 
A  nd  roam  through  wide  eternity  ; 
Could  tread  with  thee  the  courts  of  heaven, 
And  count  the  brilliant  stars  of  even  ! 


BIOGRAPHY.  31 

11  Farewell,  dear  mother !  for  a  while 
I  must  resign  thy  plaintive  smile  ; 
May  angels  watch  thy  couch  of  woe, 
And  joys  unceasing  round  thee  flow." 

In  the  month  of  January,  1833,  while  still  in  Canada,  she 
was  brought  very  low  by  an  attack  of  scarlet  fever,  under 
which  she  lingered  many  weeks,  but  had  so  far  recovered  by 
the  middle  of  April  as  to  take  the  air  in  a  carnage.  Her 
mother,  too,  having  regained  sufficient  strength  to  travel,  it 
was  thought  advisable/for  both  their  healths,  to  try  the  effect 
of  a  journey  to  New  York.  They  accordingly  departed 
about  the  beginning  of  May,  accompanied  by  a  family  party. 
Of  this  journey,  and  a  sojourn  of  several  months  in  New 
York,  she  kept  a  journal,  which  evinces  considerable  habits 
of  observation,  but  still  more  that  kindling  of  the  imagination 
which,  in  the  poetic  mind,  gives  to  commonplace  realities  the 
witchery  of  romance.  She  was  deeply  interested  by  visits  to 
the  "  School  for  the  Blind,"  and  the  "  Deaf  and  Dumb  Asy 
lum  ;"  and  makes  a  minute  of  a  visit  of  a  very  different 
nature — to  Black  Hawk  and  his  fellow-chiefs,  prisoners  of 
war,  who,  by  command  of  government,  were  taken  about 
through  various  of  our  cities,  that  they  might  carry  back  to 
their  brethren  in  the  wilderness,  a  cautionary  idea  of  the 
overwhelming  power  of  the  white  man. 

"On  the  25th  June  I  saw  and  shook  hands  with  the  famous 
Black  Hawk,  the  Indian  chief,  the  enemy  of  our  nation,  who 
has  massacred  our  patriots,  murdered  our  women  and  helpless 
children  !  Why  is  he  treated  with  so  much  attention  by  those 
whom  he  has  injured?  It  cannot  surely  arise  from  benevo 
lence.  It  must  be  policy.  Be  it  what  it  may,  I  cannot  un 
derstand  it.  His  son,  the  Prophet,  and  others  who  accompa 
nied  him,  interested  me  more  than  the  chief  himself.  His 
son  is  no  doubt  a  fine  specimen  of  Indian  beauty.  He  has  a 
high  brow,  piercing  black  eyes,  long  black  hair,  which  hangs 
down  his  back,  and,  upon  the  whole,  is  well  suited  to  captivate 
an  Indian  maiden.  The  Prophet  we  found  surveying  himself 
in  a  looking-glass,  undoubtedly  wishing  to  show  himself  off 
to  the  best  advantage  in  the  fair  assembly  before  him.  The 
rest  were  dozing  on  a  sofa,  but  they  were  awakened  sufficiently 
to  shake  hands  with  us,  and  others  who  had  the  courage  to 
approach  so  near  them.  I  remember  I  dreamed  of  them  the 
following  night." 

During  this  visit  to  New  York,  she  was  the  life  a\id  delight 


32  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

of  the  relatives  with  whom  she  resided,  and  they  still  retain 
a  lively  recollection  of  the  intellectual  nature  of  her  sports 
among  her  youthful  companions,  and  of  the  surprising  aptness 
and  fertile  invention  displayed  by  her  in  contriving  new  sources 
of  amusement.  She  had  a  number  of  playmates,  nearly  of 
her  own  age,  and  one  of  her  projects  was  to  get  up  a  dramatic 
entertainment  for  the  gratification  of  themselves  and  their 
friends.  The  proposal  was  readily  agreed  to,  provided  she 
would  write  the  play.  This  she  readily  undertook,  and  indeed 
devised  and  directed  the  whole  arrangements,  though  she  had 
never  been  but  once  to  a  theatre,  and  that  on  her  previous 
visit  to  New  York.  Her  little  companions  were  now  all  busily 
employed,  under  her  direction,  preparing  dresses  and  equip- 
ments ;  robes  with  trains  were  fitted  out  for  the  female  charac 
ters,  and  quantities  of  paper  and  tinsel  were  consumed  in 
making  caps,  helmets,  spears,  and  sandals. 

After  four  or  five  days  had  been  spent  in  these  preparations, 
Margaret  was  called  upon  to  produce  the  play.  "  Oh  f"  she 
replied,  "  I  have  not  written  it  yet." — "  But  how  is  this !  Do 
you  make  the  dresses  first,  and  then  write  the  play  to  suit 
them?" — "  Oh  !"  replied  she  gaily,  "  the  writing  of  the  play 
is  the  easiest  part  of  the  preparation ;  it  will  be  ready  before 
the  dresses."  And,  in  fact,  in  two  days  she  produced  her 
drama,  "  The  Tragedy  of  Alethia."  It  was  not  very  volumi 
nous,  to  be  sure,  but  it  contained  within  it  sufficient  of  high 
character  and  astounding  arid  bloody  incident  to  furnish  out 
a  drama  of  five  times  its  size.  A  king  and  queen  of  England 
resolutely  bent  upon  marrying  their  daughter,  the  Princess 
Alethia,  to  the  Duke  of  Ormond.  The  princess  most  per 
versely  and  dolorously  in  love  with  a  mysterious  cavalier, 
who  figures  at  her  father's  court  under  the  name  of  Sir  Percy 
Lennox,  but  who,  in  private  truth,  is  the  Spanish  king,  Rod- 
rigo,  thus  obliged  to  maintain  an  incognito  on  account  of  cer 
tain  hostilities  between  Spain  and  England.  The  odious 
nuptials  of  the  princess  with  the  Duke  of  Ormond  proceed : 
she  is  led,  a  submissive  victim,  to  the  altar;  is  on  the  point  of 
pledging  her  irrevocable  word  ;  when  the  priest  throws  off 
his  sacred  robe,  discovers  himself  to  be  Rodrigo,  and  plunges 
a  dagger  into  the  bosom  of  the  king.  Alethia  instantly  plucks 
the  dagger  from  her  father's  bosom,  throws  herself  into  Rod- 
rigo's  "arms,  and  kills  herself.  Rodrigo  flies  to  a  cavern, 
renounces  England,  Spain,  and  his  royal  throne,  and  devotes 
himself  to  eternal  remorse.  The  queen  ends  the  play  by  a 


BIOGRAFHY.  33 

passionate  apostrophe  to  the  spirit  of  her  daughter,  and  sinks 
dead  on  the  floor. 

The  little  drama  lies  before  us,  a  curious  specimen  of  the 
prompt  talent  of  this  most  ingenious  child,  and  by  no  means 
more  incongruous  in  its  incidents  than  many  current  dramas 
by  veteran  and  experienced  playwrights. 

The  parts  were  now  distributed  and  soon  learnt ;  Margaret 
drew  out  a  play-hill,  in  theatrical  style,  containing  a  list  of 
the  dramatis  persorice,  and  issued  regular  tickets  of  admission. 
The  piece  went  off  with  universal  applause :  Margaret  figur 
ing,  in  a  long  train,  as  the  princess,  and  killing  herself  in  a 
style  that  would  not  have  disgraced  an  experienced  stage 
heroine. 

In  these,  and  similar  amusements,  her  time  passed  happily 
in  New  York,  for  it  was  the  study  of  the  intelligent  and 
amiable  relatives  with  whom  she  sojourned,  to  render  her 
residence  among  them  as  agreeable  and  profitable  as  possible. 
Her  visit,  however,  was  protracted  much  beyond  what  was 
originally  intended.  As  the  summer  advanced,  the  heat  and 
restraint  of  the  city  became  oppressive;  her  heart  yearned 
after  her  native  home  on  the  Saranac;  and  the  following 
lines,  written  at  the  time,  express  the  state  of  her  feelings — 

HOME. 

I  would  fly  from  the  city,  would  fly  from  its  care, 

To  my  own  native  plants  and  my  flpw'rets  so  fair ; 

To  the  cool  grassy  shade,  and  the  rivulet  bright, 

Which  reflects  the  pale  moon  on  its  bosom  of  light. 

Again  would  I  view  the  old  mansion  so  dear, 

Where  I  sported,  a  babe,  without  sorrow  or  fear; 

I  would  leave  this  great  city,  so  brilliant  and  gay, 

For  a  peep  at  my  home  on  this  fine  summer  day. 

I  have  friends  whom  I  love  and  would  leave  with  regret, 

But  the  love  of  my  home,  oh,  'tis  tenderer  yet ! 

There  a  sister  reposes  unconscious  in  death — 

'T  was  there  she  first  drew  and  there  yielded  her  breath — • 

A  father  I  love  is  away  from  me  now — 

Oh  could  I  but  print  a  sweet  kiss  on  his  brow, 

Or  smooth  the  grey  locks,  to  my  fond  heart  so  dear, 

How  quickly  would  vanish  each  trace  of  a  tear  ! 

Attentive  I  listen  to  pleasure's  gay  call, 

But  my  own  darling  home,  it  is  dearer  than  all. 

At  length,  late  in  the  month  of  October,  the  travellers 
turned  their  faces  homewards ;  but  it  was  not  the  "  darling 
home"  for  which  Margaret  had  been  longing  :  her  native  cot 
tage  on  the  beautiful  banks  of*  the  Saranac.  The  wintry 
winds  from  Lake  Champlain  had  been  pronounced  too  sever* 
3 


34  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

for  her  constitution,  and  the  family  residence  had  been  re- 
luctantiy  changed  to  the  village  of  Ballston.  Margaret  felt 
this  change  most  deeply.  We  have  already  shown  the  tender 
as  well  as  poetical  associations  that  linked  her  heart  to  the 
beautiful  home  of  her  childhood ;  a  presentiment  seemed  to 
come  over  her  mind  that  she  would  never  see  it  more ;  a  pre 
sentiment  unfortunately  prophetic.  She  was  now  accustomed 
to  give  prompt  utterance  to  her  emotions  in  rhyme,  and  the 
following  lines,  written  at  the  time,  remain  a  touching  record 
of  her  feelings — 

MY  NATIVE  LAKE. 

Thy  verdant  banks,  thy  lucid  stream. 
Lit  by  the  sun's  resplendent  beam, 
Reflect  each  bending  tree  so  light 
Upon  thy  bounding  bosom  bright, 
Could  I  but  see  thee  once  again, 
My  own,  my  beautiful  Champlain ! 

The  little  isles  that  deck  thy  breast, 

And  calmly  on  thy  bosom  rest, 

How  often,  in  my  childish  glee, 

I  've  sported  round  them,  bright  and  free  ! 

Could  I  but  see  thee  once  again, 

My  own,  my  beautiful  Champlain  ! 

How  oft  I  've  watch' d  the  fresh' ning  shower 
Bending  the  summer  tree  and  flower, 
And  felt  my  little  heart  beat  high 
As  the  bright  rainbow  graced  the  sky. 
Could  I  but  see  thee  once  again, 
My  own,  my  beautiful  Champlain! 

And  shall  I  never  see  thee  more, 

My  native  lake,  my  much-loved  shore  ? 

And  must  I  bid  a  long  adieu, 

My  dear,  my  infant  home,  to  you  ? 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  once  again, 

My  own,  my  beautiful  Champlain? 

Still,  though  disappointed  at  not  returning  to  the  Saranac, 
she  soon  made  herself  contented  at  Ballston.  She  was  at 
home,  in  the  bosom  of  her  own  family,  and  reunited  to  her 
two  youngest  brothers,  from  whom  she  had  long  been  sepa 
rated.  A  thousand  little  plans  were  devised  by  her,  and  some 
few  of  them  put  in  execution,  for  their  mutual  pleasure  and 
improvement.  One  of  the  most  characteristic  of  these  was 
a  "  weekly  paper,"  issued  by  her  in  manuscript,  and  entitled 
"The  Juvenile  Aspirant."  All  their  domestic  occupations 
and  amusement?  were  of  an  intellectual  kind.  Their  morn- 
:ngs  were  spent  in  study ;  the  evenings  enlivened  by  con- 


BIOGRAPHY.  35 

versation,  or  by  the  work  of  some  favourite  author,   read 
aloud  for  the  benefit  of  the  family  circle. 

As  the  powers  of  this  excitable  and  imaginative  little  being 
developed  themselves,  Mrs.  Davidson  felt  more  and  more 
conscious  of  the  responsibility  of  undertaking  to  cultivate  and 
direct  them ;  yet  to  whom  could  she  confide  her  that  would 
so  well  understand  her  character  and  constitution  1  To  place 
her  in  a  boarding-school  would  subject  her  to  increased  ex 
citement,  caused  by  emulation,  and  her  mind  was  already  too 
excitable  for  her  fragile  frame.  Her  peculiar  temperament 
required  peculiar  culture;  it  must  neither  be  stimulated  nor 
checked  ;  and  while  her  imagination  was  left  to  its  free  soar 
ings,  care  must  be  taken  to  strengthen  her  judgment,  improve 
her  mind,  establish  her  principles,  and  inculcate  habits  of  self  ; 
examination  and  self-control.  All  this,  it  was  thought,  might 
best  be  accomplished  under  a  mother's  eye ;  it  was  resolved, 
therefore,  that  her  education  should,  as  before,  be  conducted 
entirely  at  home.  "  Thus  she  continued,"  to  use  her  mother's 
words,  "  to  live  in  the  bosom  of  affection,  where  every  thought 
and  feeling  was  reciprocated.  I  strove  to  draw  out  the  powers 
of  her  mind  by  conversation  and  familiar  remarks  upon  sub 
jects  of  daily  study  and  reflection,  and  taught  her  the  neces 
sity  of  bringing  all  her  thoughts,  desires  and  feelings  under 
the  dominion  of  reason  ;  to  understand  the  importance  of  self- 
control,  when  she  found  her  inclinations  were  at  war  with  its 
dictates.  To  fulfil  all  her  duties  from  a  conviction  of  right, 
because  they  were  duties ;  and  to  find  her  happiness  in  the 
consciousness  of  her  own  integrity,  and  the  approbation  of 
God.  How  delightful  was  the  task  of  instructing  a  mind  like 
hers !  She  seized  with  avidity  upon  every  new  idea,  for  the 
instruction  proceeded  from  lips  of  love.  Often  would  she 
exclaim,  « Oh  mamma !  how  glad  I  am  that  you  are  not  too 
ill  to  teach  rne!  Surely  I  am  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world  !' 
She  had  read  much  for  a  child  of  little  more  than  ten  years 
of  age.  She  was  well  versed  in  both  ancient  and  modern 
history,  (that  is  to  say,  in  the  courses  generally  prescribed 
for  the  use  of  schools,)  Blair,  Kaimes,  and  Paley  had  formed 
part  of  her  studies.  She  was  familiar  with  most  of  the  British 
poets.  Her  command  of  the  English  language  was  remark 
able,  both  in  conversation  and  writing.  She  had  learned  the 
rudiments  of  French,  and  was  anxious  to  become  perfect  in 
the  language ;  but  I  had  so  neglected  my  duty  in  this  respect 
after  I  left  school,  that  I  was  not  qualified  to  instruct  her.  A 


36  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

friend,  however,  who  understood  French,  called  occasionally 
and  gave  her  lessons  for  his  own  amusement ;  she  soon  trans 
lated  well,  and  such  was  her  talent  for  the  acquisition  of  lan 
guages,  and  such  her  desire  to  read  every  thing  in  the  origi 
nal,  that  every  obstacle  vanished  before  her  perseverance. 
She  made  some  advances  in  Latin,  also,  in  company  with  her 
brother,  who  was  attended  by  a  private  teacher ;  and  they 
were  engaged  upon  the  early  books  of  Virgil,  when  her  health 
again  gave  way,  and  she  was  confined  to  her  room  by  severe 
illness.  These  frequent  attacks  upon  a  frame  so  delicate 
awakened  all  our  fears.  Her  illness  spread  a  gloom  through 
out  our  habitation,  for  fears  were  entertained  that  it  would  end 
in  a  pulmonary  consumption."  After  a  confinement  of  two 
months,  however,  she  regained  her  usual,  though  at  all  times 
fragile,  state  of  health.  In  the  following  spring,  when  she 
had  just  entered  upon  the  eleventh  year  of  her  age,  intelli 
gence  arrived  of  the  death  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  T.,  who-  had 
been  resident  in  Canada.  The  blow  had  been  apprehended 
from  previous  accounts  of  her  extreme  illness,  but  it  was  a 
severe  shock.  She  had  looked  up  to  this  sister  as  to  a  second 
mother,  and  as  to  one  who,  from  the  precarious  health  of  her 
natural  parent,  might  be  called  upon  to  fulfil  that  tender  office. 
She  was  one  also  calculated  to  inspire  affection;  lovely  in 
person,  refined  and  intelligent  in  mind,  still  young  in  years ; 
and  with  all  this,  her  only  remaining  sister !  In  the  follow 
ing  lines,  poured  out  in  the  fulness  of  her  grief,  she  touch- 
ingly  alludes  to  the  previous  loss  of  her  sister  Lucretia,  so 
often  the  subject  of  her  poetic  regrets,  and  of  the  consolation 
she  had  always  felt  in  still  having  a  sister  to  love  and  cherish 
her. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MY  SISTER  ANNA  ELIZA. 

While  weeping  o'er  our  sister's  tomb, 

And  heaving  many  a  heartfelt  sigh, 
And  while  in  youth's  bewitching  bloom, 

I  thought  not  that  thou  too  couldst  die. 

When  gazing  on  that  little  mound, 

Spread  o'er  with  turf,  and  flowers,  and  mould, 

I  thought  not  that  thy  lovely  form 
Could  be  as  motionless  and  cold. 

When  her  light,  airy  form  was  lost 

To  fond  affection's  weeping  eye, 
I  thought  not  we  should  mourn  for  thee, 

I  thought  not  that  thou  too  couldst  die. 


BIOGRAPHY.  37 

Yes,  sparkling  gem  !  when  thou  wert  here, 

From  death's  encircling  mantle  free, 
Our  mourning  parents  wiped  each  tear, 

And  cried,  "  Why  weep?  we  still  have  thee." 

Each  tender  thought  on  thee  they  turn'd, 

Each  hope  of  joy  to  thee  was  given, 
And,  dwelling  on  each  matchless  charm, 

They  half  forgot  the  saint  in  heaven. 

But  thou  art  gone,  for  ever  gone  ! 

Sweet  wanderer  in  a  world  of  woe ! 
Now,  unrestrained  our  grief  must  pour  ; 

Uncheck'd  our  mourning  tears  must  flow. 

How  oft  I  've  pressed  my  glowing  lip 

In  rapture  to  thy  snowy  brow, 
And  gazed  upon  that  angel  eye, 

Closed  in  death's  chilling  slumber  now ! 

While  tottering  on  the  verge  of  life, 

Thine  every  nerve  with  pain  unstrung, 
That  beaming  eye  was  raised  to  heaven, 

That  heart  to  God  for  safety  clung. 

And  when  the  awful  moment  came, 

Replete  with  trembling  hope  and  fear, 
Though  anguish  shook  thy  slender  frame, 

Thy  thoughts  were  in  a  brighter  sphere. 

The  wreath  of  light  which  round  thee  play'd, 

Bore  thy  pure  spirit  to  the  skies ; 
With  thee  we  lost  our  brightest  gem, 

But  heaven  has  gained  a  glorious  prize. 

Oh  may  the  bud  of  promise  left, 

Follow  the  brilliant  path  she  trod, 
And  of  her  fostering  care  bereft, 

Still  seek  and  find  his  mother's  God. 

But  he,  the  partner  of  her  life, 

Who  shared  her  joy  and  soothed  her  woe, 
How  can  I  heal  his  broken  heart  ? 

How  bid  his  sorrow  cease  to  flow  ? 

It's  only  time  these  wounds  can  heal ; 

Time,  from  whose  piercing  pangs  alone 
The  poignancy  of  grief  can  steal, 

And  hush  the  heart's  convulsive  moan. 

To  parry  the  effect  of  this  most  afflicting  blow,  Margaret 
was  sent  on  a  visit  to  New  York,  where  she  passed  a  couple 
of  months  in  the  society  of  affectionate  and  intelligent  friends, 
and  returned  home  in  June,  recruited  in  health  and  spirits. 
The  sight  of  her  mother,  however,  though  habituated  to  sor 
row  and  suffering,  yet  bowed  down  by  her  recent  bereave 
ment,  called  forth  her  tenderest  sympathies ;  and  we  consider 
it  as  illustrating  the  progress  of  the  intellect  and  the  history 
3* 


38  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

of  the  heart  of  this  most  interesting  child,  to  insert  another 
effusion  called  forth  by  this  domestic  calamity : 

TO  MY  MOTHER  OPPRESSED  WITH  SORROW. 

Weep,  oh  my  mother  !   I  will  bid  ihee  weep  ! 

For  grief  like  thine  requires  the  aid  of  tears ; 

But  oh,  I  would  not  see  thy  bosom  thus 

Bow'd  down  to  earth,  with  anguish  so  severe  ! 

I  would  not  see  thine  ardent  feelings  crush'd, 

Deaden'd  to  all  save  sorrow's  thrilling  tone, 

Like  the  pale  flower,  which  hangs  its  drooping  head 

Beneath  the  chilling  blasts  of  stern  JEolus  ! 

Oh  I  have  seen  that  brow  with  pleasure  flush'd, 

The  lightning  smile  around  it  brightly  playing, 

And  the  dark  eyelids  trembling  with  delight — 

But  now  how  changed  ! — thy  downcast  eye  is  bent, 

With  heavy,  thoughtful  glances,  on  the  ground, 

And  oh  how  quickly  starts  the  tear-drop  there ! 

It  is  not  age  which  dims  its  wonted  fire, 

Or  plants  his  lilies  on  thy  pallid  cheek, 

But  sorrow,  keenest,  darkest,  biting  sorrow ! 

When  love  would  seek  to  lead  thy  heart  from  grief, 

And  fondly  pleads  one  cheering  look  to  view, 

A  sad,  a  faint  sad  smile  one  instant  gleams 

Athwart  the  brow  where  sorrow  sits  enshrined, 

Brooding  o'er  ruins  of  what  once  was  fair ; 

But  like  departing  sunset,  as  it  throws 

One  farewell  shadow  o'er  the  sleeping  earth, 

(So  soon  in  sombre  twilight  to  be  wrapt,) 

Thus,  thus  it  fades !  and  sorrow  more  profound 

Dwells  on  each  feature  where  a  smile,  so  cold, 

It  scarcely  might  be  called  the  mockery 

Of  cheerful  peace,  but  just  before  had  been. 

Long  years  of  suffering,  brightened  not  by  joy, 

Death  and  disease,  fell  harbinger  of  woe, 

Must  leave  their  impress  on  the  human  face, 

And  dim  the  fire  of  youth,  the  glow  of  pride; 

But  oh  my  mother!  mourn  not  thus  for  her, 

The  rose,  just  blown,  transplanted  to  its  home, 

Nor  weep  that  her  angelic  soul  has  found 

A  resting-place  with  God. 

Oh  let  the  eye  of  heaven-born  faith  disperse 

The  dark'ning  mists  of  earthly  grief,  and  pierce 

The  clouds  which  shadow  dull  mortality  ! 

Gaze  on  the  heaven  of  glory  crown'd  with  light, 

Where  rests  thine  own  sweet  child  wilh  radiant  brow 

In  the  same  voice  which  charm'd  her  father's  halls, 

Chanting  sweet  anthems  to  her  Maker's  praise  ; 

And  watching  with  delight  the  gentle  buds 

Which  she  had  lived  to  mourn ;  watching  thine  own. 

My  mother!  the  soft  unfolding  blossoms, 

Which,  ere  the  breath  of  earthly  sin  could  taint, 

Departed  to  their  Saviour;  there  to  wait 

For  thy  fond  spirit  in  the  home  of  bliss ! 

The  angel  babes  have  found  a  second  mother ; 

But  when  thy  soul  shall  pass  from  earth  away, 


BIOGRAPHY.  30 

The  little  cherubs  then  shall  cling  to  thee, 

And  their  sweet  guardian  welcome  thee  with  joy, 

Protector  of  their  helpless  infancy, 

Who  taught  them  how  to  reach  that  happy  home. 

Oh  think  of  this,  and  let  one  heartfelt  smile 

Illume  the  face  so  long  estranged  from  joy ; 

But  may  it  rest  not  on  thy  brow  alone, 

But  shed  a  cheering  influence  o'er  thy  heart, 

Too  sweet  to  be  forgotten  !    Though  thy  loved 

And  beautiful  are  fled  from  earth  away, 

Still  there  are  those  who  love  thee — who  would  live 

With  thee  alone — who  weeps  or  smiles  with  thee. 

Think  of  thy  noble  sons,  and  think  of  her 

Who  prays  thee  to  be  happy  in  the  hope 

Of  meeting  those  in  heaven  who  loved  thee  here, 

And  training  those  on  earth  that  they  may  live 

A  band  of  saints  with  thee  in  Paradise. 

The  regular  studies  of  Margaret  were  now  resumed,  and 
her  mother  found,  in  attending  to  her  instruction,  a  relief  from 
the  poignancy  of  her  afflictions.  Margaret  always  enjoyed 
the  country,  and  in  fine  weather  indulged  in  long  rambles  in 
the  woods,  accompanied  by  some  friend,  or  attended  by  a 
faithful  servant  woman.  When  in  the  house,  the  versatility 
of  her  talents,  her  constitutional  vivacity,  and  an  aptness  at 
coining  occupation  and  amusement  out  of  the  most  trifling 
incident,  perpetually  relieved  the  monotony  of  domestic  lile; 
while  the  faint  gleam  of  health  that  occasionally  flitted  across 
her  cheek,  beguiled  the  anxious  foreboding  that  had  been  in 
dulged  concerning  her.  "  A  strong  hope  was  rising  in  my 
heart,"  says  her  mother,  "that  our  frail,  delicate  blossom 
would  continue  to  flourish,  and  that  it  was  possible  I  might 
live  to  behold  the  perfection  of  its  beauty !  Alas !  how  un 
certain  is  every  earthly  prospect !  Even  then  the  canker  was 
concealed  within  the  bright  bud,  which  was  eventually  to 
destroy  its  loveliness!  About  the  last  of  December  she  was 
again  seized  with  a  liver  complaint,  which,  by  sympathy, 
affected  her  lungs,  and  again  awakened  all  our  fears.  She 
was  confined  to  her  bed,  and  it  was  not  until  March  that  she 
was  able  to  sit  up  and  walk  about  her  room.  The  confine 
ment  then  became  irksome,  but  her  kind  and  skilful  physician 
had  declared  that  she  must  not  be  permitted  to  venture  out 
until  mild  weather  in  April."  During  this  fit  of  illness  her 
mind  had  remained  in  an  unusual  state  of  inactivity ;  but  with 
the  opening  of  spring,  and  the  faint  return  of  health,  it  broke 
forth  with  a  brilliancy  and  a  restless  excitability  that  astonished 
and  alarmed.  "  In  conversation,"  says  her  mother,  "  her 
s  Hies  of  wit  were  dazzling.  She  composed  and  wrote  in- 


-1C  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

c-essantly,  or  rather  would  have  done  so,  had  I  not  interposed 
my  authority  to  prevent  this  unceasing  tax  upon  both  her 
mental  and  physical  strength.  Fugitive  pieces  were  produced 
everyday,  such  as,  '  The  Shunamite,'  '  Belshazzar's  Feast,' 
<  The  Nature  of  Mind,'  '  Boabdil  el  Chico,'  &c.  She  seemed 
to  exist  only  in  the  regions  of  poetry."  We  cannot  help 
ihinking  that  these  moments  of  intense  poetical  exaltation 
sometimes  approached  to  delirium,  for  we  are  told  by  her 
mother  that  "  the  image  of  her  departed  sister  Lucretia  min 
gled  in  all  her  aspirations ;  the  holy  elevation  of  Lucretia's 
character  had  taken  deep  hold  of  her  imagination,  and  in  hei 
moments  of  enthusiasm  she  felt  that  she  held  close  and  inti 
mate  communion  with  her  beatified  spirit." 

This  intense  mental  excitement  continued  after  she  was 
permitted  to  leave  her  room,  and  her  application  to  her  books 
and  papers  was  so  eager  and  almost  impassioned,  that  it  was 
found  expedient  again  to  send  her  on  an  excursion.  A  visit 
to  some  relatives,  and  a  sojourn  among  the  beautiful  scenery 
on  the  Mohawk  river,  had  a  salutary  effect ;  but  on  returning 
home  she  was  again  attacked  with  alarming  indisposition, 
which  confined  her  to  her  bed. 

"  The  struggle  between  nature  and  disease,"  says  her 
mother,  "  was  for  a  time  doubtful ;  she  was,  however,  at 
length  restored  to  us.  With  returning  health,  her  mental 
labours  were  resumed.  I  reasoned  and  entreated,  but  at  last 
became  convinced  that  my  only  way  was  to  let  matters  take 
their  course.  If  restrained  in  her  favourite  pursuits  she  was 
unhappy.  To  acquire  useful  knowledge  was  a  motive  suffi 
cient  to  induce  her  to  surmount  all  obstacles.  I  could  only 
select  for  her  a  course  of  calm  and  quiet  reading,  which, 
while  it  furnished  real  food  for  the  mind,  would  compose 
rather  than  excite  the  imagination.  She  read  much,  and 
wrote  a  great  deal.  As  for  myself,  I  lived  in  a  state  of  con 
stant  anxiety  lest  these  labours  should  prematurely  destroy 
his  delicate  bud." 

In  the  autumn  of  1835,  Dr.  Davidson  made  arrangements 
to  remove  his  family  to  a  rural  residence  near  New  York, 
pleasantly  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Sound,  or  East  River, 
as  it  is  commonly  called.  The  following  extract  of  a  letter 
from  Margaret  to  Moss  Kent,  Esq.,*  will  show  her  anticipa 
tions  and  plans  on  this  occasion. 

*  This  gpntleman  was  an  early  and  valued  friend  of  the  Davidson 
family,  and  is  honourably  mentioned  by  Mr.  Morse  for  the  interest  IIP 


BIOGRAPHY.  41 

September  20,  1835. 

11  We  shall  soon  leave  Ballston  for  New  York.  We  are 
to  reside  in  a  beautiful  spot,  upon  the  East  River,  near  the 
Shot  Tower,  four  miles  from  town,  romantically  called 
Ruremont.  Will  it  not  be  delightful !  Reunited  to  father 
and  brothers,  we  must,  we  will  be  happy  !  We  shall  keep  a 
horse  and  a  little  pleasure-wagon,  to  transport  us  to  and 
from  town.  But  I  intend  my  time  shall  be  constantly  em 
ployed  in  my  studies,  which  I  hope  I  shall  continue  to  pursue 
at  home.  I  wish  (and  mamma  concurs  in  the  opinion  that 
it  is  best)  to  devote  this  winter  to  the  study  of  the  Latin 
and  French  languages,  while  music  and  dancing  will  unbend 
my  mind  after  close  application  to  those  studies,  and  give 
me  that  recreation  which  mother  deems  requisite  for  me. 
If  father  can  procure  private  teachers  for  me,  1  shall  be  saved 
the  dreadful  alternative  of  a  boarding-school.  Mother  could 
never  endure  the  thought  of  one  for  me,  and  my  own  aver 
sion  is  equally  strong.  Oh  !  my  dear  uncle,  you  must  come 
and  see  us.  Come  soon  and  stay  long.  Try  to  be  with  us 
at  Christmas.  Mother's  health  is  not  as  good  as  when  you 
were  here.  I  hope  she  will  be  benefited  by  a  residence  in 
her  native  city — in  the  neighbourhood  of  those  friends  she 
best  loves.  The  state  of  her  mind  has  an  astonishing  effect 
upon  her  health." 

took  in  the  education  of  Lucretia.  The  notice  of  Mr.  Morse,  however, 
leaves  it  to  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Kent's  acquaintance  with  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Davidson  was  brought  about  by  his  admiration  of  their  daughter's 
talents,  and  commenced  with  overtures  for  her  instruction.  The  follow 
ing  extract  of  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Davidson  will  place  this  matter  in  a 
proper  light,  and  show  that  these  offers  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Kent,  and 
the  partial  acceptance  of  them  by  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Davidson,  were  warranted 
by  the  terms  of  intimacy  which  before  existed  between  them.  "  I  had 
the  pleasure,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "to  know  Mr.  Kent  before  my 
marriage,  after  which  he  frequently  called  at  our  house  when  visiting  his 
sister,  with  whom  I  was  on  terms  of  intimacy.  On  one  of  these  occa 
sions  he  saw  Lucretia.  He  had  often  seen  her  when  a  child,  but  she 
had  changed  much.  Her  uncommon  personal  beauty,  graceful  man 
ners,  and  superior  intellectual  endowments  made  a  strong  impression  on 
him.  He  conversed  with  her,  and  examined  her  on  the  different  branches 
which  she  was  studying,  and  pronounced  her  a  good  English  scholar. 
He  also  found  her  well  read,  and  possessing  a  fund  of  general  informa 
tion.  He  warmly  expressed  his  admiration  of  her  talents,  and  urged 
me  to  consent  that  he  should  adopt  her  as  his  daughter,  and  complete 
her  education  on  the  most  liberal  plan.  I  so  far  acceded  to  his  proposi 
tion  as  to  permit  him  to  place  her  with  Mrs.  Willard,  and  assured  him 
I  would  take  his  generous  offer  into  consideration.  Had  she  lived,  we 
should  have  complied  with  his  wishes,  and  Lucretia  would  htive  been 
the  child  of  his  adoption.  The  pure  and  disinterested  friendship  of  this 
excellent  man  continued  until  the  day  of  his  death.  For  Margaret  he 
manifested  the  affection  of  a  father,  and  the  attachment  was  returned 
by  her  with  all  the  warmth  of  a  young  and  grateful  heart.  She  always 
addressed  him  as  her  dear  uncle  Kent." 


42  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

The  following  letter  to  the  same  gentleman,  is  dated  Octo 
ber  18,  1835: 

"We  are  now  at  Ruremont,  and  a  more  delightful  place 
I  never  saw.  The  house  is  large,  pleasant,  arid  commodious, 
and  the  old-fashioned  style  of  every  thing  around  it  trans 
ports  the  mind  to  days  long  gone  by,  and  my  imagination 
is  constantly  upon  the  rack  to  burden  the  past  with  scenes 
transacted  on  this  very  spot.  In  the  rear  of  the  mansion  a 
.lawn,  spangled  with  beautiful  flowers,  arid  shaded  by  spread 
ing  trees,  slopes  gently  down  to  the  river  side,  where  ves 
sels  of  every  description  are  constantly  spreading  their 
white  sails  to  the  wind.  In  front,  a  long  shady  avenue  leads 
to  the  door,  and  a  large  extent  of  beautiful  undulating 
ground  is  spread  with  fruit-trees  of  every  description.  In 
and  about  the  house  there  are  so  many  little  nooks  arid  by- 
places,  that  sometimes  I  fancy  it  has  been  the  resort  of 
smugglers;  and  who  knows  but  I  shall  yet  find  their  hidden 
treasures  somewhere  !  Do  come  and  see  us,  my  dear  uncle; 
but  you  must  come  soon,  if  you  would  enjoy  any  of  the 
beauties  of  the  place.  The  trees  have  already  doffed  their 
robe  of  green,  and  assumed  the  red  and  yellow  of  autumn, 
and  the  paths  are  strewed  with  fallen  leaves.  But  there  is 
loveliness  even  in  the  decay  of  nature.  But  do,  do  come 
soon,  or  the  branches  will  be  leafless,  and  the  cold  winds 
will  prevent  the  pleasant  rambles  we  now  enjoy.  Dear 
mother  has  twice  accompanied  me  a  short  distance  about 
the  grounds,  and  indeed  1  think  her  health  has  improved 
since  we  removed  to  New  York,  though  she  is  still  very 
feeble.  Her  mind  is  much  relieved,  having  her  little  family 
gathered  once  more  around  her.  You  well  know  how 
great  an  effect  her  spirits  have  upon  her  health.  Oh  !  if  my 
dear  mother  is  only  in  comfortable  health,  and  you  will 
come,  I  think  I  shall  spend  a  delightful  winter  prosecuting 
my  studies  at  home." 

"  For  a  short  time,"  writes  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  she  seemed 
to  luxuriate  upon  the  beauties  of  this  lovely  place.  She  se 
lected  her  own  room,  and  adjusted  all  her  little  tasteful  orna 
ments.  Her  books  and  drawing  implements  were  transported 
to  this  chosen  spot.  Still  she  hovered  around  me  like  my 
shadow.  Mother's  room  was  still  her  resting-place;  mother's 
bosom  her  sanctuary.  She  sketched  a  plan  for  one  or  two 
poems  which  were  never  finished.  But  her  enjoyment  was 
soon  interrupted.  She  was  again  attacked  by  her  old  enemy, 
and  though  her  confinement  to  her  room  was  of  short  dura 
tion,  she  did  not  get  rid  of  the  cough.  A  change  now  came 


BIOGRAPHY.  43 

over  her  mind.  Hitherto  she  had  always  delighted  in  serious 
conversation  on  heaven  ;  the  pure  and  elevated  occupations 
of  saints  and  angels  in  a  future  state  had  proved  a  delightful 
source  of  contemplation  ;  and  she  would  become  so  animated 
that  it  seemed  sometimes  as  if  she  would  fly  to  realize  her 
hopes  and  joys  ! — Now  her  young  heart  appeared  to  cling  to 
life  and  its  enjoyments,  and  more  closely  than  I  had  ever 
known  it.  'She  was  never  ill.' — When  asked  the  question, 
*  Margaret,  how  are  you?"  '  Well,  quite  well,'  was  her  reply, 
when  it  was  obvious  to  me,  who  watched  her  every  look,  that 
she  had  scarcely  strength  to  sustain  her  weak  frame.  She 
saw  herself  the  last  daughter  of  her  idolizing  parents — the 
only  sister  of  her  devoted  brothers  !  Life  had  acquired  new 
charms ;  though  she  had  always  been  a  happy,  light-hearted 
child." 

The  following  lines,  written  about  this  time,  show  the  elas 
ticity  of  her  spirit,  and  the  bounding  vivacity  of  her  imagina 
tion,  that  seemed  to  escape,  as  in  a  dream,  from  the  frail 
tenement  of  clay  in  which  they  were  encased : 

STANZAS. 

Oh  for  the  pinions  of  a  bird, 

To  bear  me  far  away, 
Where  songs  of  other  lands  are  heard, 

And  other  waters  play  ! 

For  some  aerial  car,  to  fly 

On  through  the  realms  of  light, 
To  regions  rife  with  poesy, 

And  teeming  with  delight. 

O'er  many  a  wild  and  classic  stream 

In  ecstasy  I'd  bend, 
And  hail  each  ivy-cover'd  tower, 

As  though  it  were  a  friend. 

O'er  piles  where  many  a  wintry  blast 

Is  swept  in  mournful  tones, 
And  fraught  with  scenes  long  glided  past, 

It  shrieks,  and  sighs,  and  moans. 

Through  many  a  shadowy  grove,  and  rounj 

Full  many  a  clois'er'd  hall, 
And  corridors,  where  every  step 

With  echoing  peal  doth  fall. 

Enchanted  with  the  dreariness. 

And  awe-siruck  with  the  gloom, 
I  would  wander,  like  a  spec: re, 

'Mid  the  regions  of  the  tomu. 


44  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  Memory  her  enchanting  veil 

Around  my  soul  should  twine, 
And  Superstition,  wildly  pale, 

Should  woo  me  to  her  shrine ; 

I'd  cherish  still  her  witching  gloom, 

Half  shrinking  in  my  dread, 
But,  powerless  to  dissolve  the  spell, 

Pursue  her  fearful  tread. 

Oh  what  unmingled  pleasure  then 

My  youthful  heart  would  feel, 
As  o'er  its  thrilling  cords  each  thought 

Of  former  days  would  steal ! 

Of  centuries  in  oblivion  wrapt, 

Of  forms  which  long  were  cold, 
And  all  of  terror,  all  of  woe, 

That  history's  page  has  told. 

How  fondly  in  my  bosom 

Would  its  monarch,  Fancy,  reign, 
And  spurn  earth's  meaner  offices 

With  glorious  disdain! 

Amid  the  scenes  of  past  delight, 

Or  misery,  I'd  roam, 
Where  ruthless  tyrants  sway'd  in  might, 

Where  princes  found  a  home. 

Where  heroes  have  enwreathed  their  brows 

With  chivalric  renown, 
Where  beauty's  hand,  as  valour's  meed, 

Hath  twined  the  laurel  crown. 

I  'd  stand  where  proudest  kings  have  stood, 

Or  kneel  where  slaves  have  knelt,  * 

Till  wrapt  in  rnasric  solitude, 
I  feel  what  they  have  felt. 

Oh  for  the  pinions  of  a  bird, 

To  watt  me  far  away, 
Where  songs  of  other  lands  are  heard, 

And  other  waters  play ! 

About  this  time  Mrs.  Davidson  received  a  letter  from  tne 
English  gentleman  for  whom  Margaret,  when  quite  a  child, 
had  conceived  such  a  friendship,  her  dear  elder  brother,  as 
she  used  to  call  him.  The  letter  bore  testimony  to  his  undi- 
minished  regard.  He  was  in  good  health  ;  married  to  a  very 
estimable  and  lovely  woman  ;  was  the  father  of  a  fine  little 
girl,  and  was  at  Havana  with  his  family,  where  he  kindly 
entreated  Mrs.  Davidson  and  Margaret  to  join  them  ;  being 
sure  that  a  winter  passed  in  that  mild  climate  would  have  the 
happiest  effect  upon  their  healths.  His  doors,  his  heart,  he 
added,  were  open  to  receive  them,  and  his  amiable  consort 


BIOGRAPHY.  45 

impatient  to  bid  them  welcome.  "  Margaret,"  says  Mrs. 
Davidson,  "  was  overcome  by  the  perusal  of  this  letter.  She 
laughed  and  wept  alternately ; — one  moment  urged  me  to  go, 
*  she  was  herself  well,  but  she  was  sure  it  would  cure  me ;' 
the  next  moment  felt  as  though  she  could  not  leave  the  friends 
to  whom  she  had  so  recently  been  reunited.  Oh  !  had  I  gone 
at  that  time,  perhaps  my  child  might  still  have  lived  to  bless 
me !" 

During  the  first  weeks  of  Margaret's  residence  at  Rure- 
mont,  the  character  and  situation  of  the  place  seized  power 
fully  upon  her  imagination.  "  The  curious  structure  of  this 
old-fashioned  house,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  its  picturesque 
appearance,  the  varied  and  beautiful  grounds  which  sur 
rounded  it,  called  up  a  thousand  poetic  images  and  romantic 
ideas.  A  long  gallery,  a  winding  staircase,  a  dark,  narrow 
passage,  a  trap-door,  large  apartments  with  massive  doors, 
and  heavy  iron  bars  and  bolts,  all  set  her  mind  teeming  with 
recollections  of  what  she  had  read  and  imagined  of  old  cas 
tles,  banditti,  smugglers,  dec.  She  roamed  over  the  place  in 
perfect  ecstasy,  peopling  every  part  with  images  of  her  own 
imagination,  and  fancying  it  the  scene  of  some  foregone  event 
of  dark  and  thrilling  interest."  There  was,  in  fact,  some 
palpable  material  for  all  this  spinning  and  weaving  of  the 
fancy.  The  writer  of  this  memoir  visited  Ruremont  at  the 
time  it  was  occupied  by  the  Davidson  family.  It  was  a 
spacious,  and  somewhat  crazy  and  poetical-looking  mansion, 
with  large  waste  apartments.  The  grounds  were  rather  wild 
and  overgrown,  but  so  much  the  more  picturesque.  It  stood 
on  the  banks  of  the  Sound,  the  waters  of  which  rushed,  with 
whirling  and  impetuous  tides,  below,  hurrying  on  to  the  dan 
gerous  strait  of  Hell  Gate.  Nor  was  this  neighbourhood 
without  its  legendary  tales.  These  wild  and  lonely  shores 
had,  in  former  times,  been  the  resort  of  smugglers  and  pirates. 
Hard  by  this  very  place  stood  the  country  retreat  of  Ready- 
Money  Prevost,  of  dubious  and  smuggling  memory,  with  his 
haunted  tomb,  in  which  he  was  said  to  conceal  his  contraband 
riches ;  and  scarce  a  secret  spot  about  these  shores  but  had 
some  tradition  connected  with  it  of  Kidd  the  pirate  and  his 
buried  treasures.  All  these  circumstances  were  enough  to 
breed  thick-coming  fancies  in  so  imaginative  a  brain;  and  the 
result  was  a  drama  in  six  acts,  entitled  "  The  Smuggler,"  the 
scene  of  which  was  laid  at  Ruremont  in  the  old  time  of  the 
province.  The  play  was  written  with  great  rapidity,  and, 
4 


46  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

considering  she  was  little  more  than  twelve  years  of  age,  and 
had  never  visited  a  theatre  but  once  in  her  life,  evinced  great 
aptness  and  dramatic  talent.  It  was  to  form  a  domestic  en 
tertainment  for  Christmas  holidays  ;  the  spacious  back  parlour 
was  to  be  fitted  up  for  the  theatre.  In  planning  and  making 
arrangements  for  the  performance,  she  seemed  perfectly 
happy,  and  her  step  resumed  its  wonted  elasticity,  though  her 
anxious  mother  often  detected  a  suppressed  cough.,  arid  re 
marked  a  hectic  flush  upon  her  cheek.  "  We  now  found," 
says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "that  private  teachers  were  not  to  be 
procured  at  Ruremont,  and  I  feared  to  have  her  enter  upon 
a  course  of  study  which  had  been  talked  of,  before  we  came 
to  this  place.  I  thought  she  was  too  feeble  for  close  mental 
application,  while  she  was  striving,  by  the  energies  of  her 
mind  and  bodily  exertion,  (which  only  increased  the  morbid 
excitement  of  her  system,)  to  overcome  disease,  that  she 
feared  was  about  to  fasten  itself  upon  her.  She  was  the  more 
anxious,  therefore,  to  enter  upon  her  studies;  and  when  she 
saw  solicitude  in  my  countenance  and  manner,  she  would  fix 
her  sweet  sad  eyes  upon  my  face,  as  if  she  would  read  my 
very  soul,  yet  dreaded  to  know  what  she  might  find  written 
there.  I  knew  and  could  understand  her  feelings ;  she  also 
understood  mine;  arid  there  seemed  to  be  a  tacit  compact 
between  us  that  this  subject,  at  present,  was  forbidden  ground. 
Her  father  and  brothers  were  lulled  into  security  by  her  cheer 
ful  manner  and  constant  assertion  that  she  was  well,  and  con 
sidered  her  cough  the  effect  of  recent  cold.  My  opinion  to 
the  contrary  was  regarded  as  the  result  of  extreme  maternal 
anxiety." 

She  accordingly  went  to  town  three  times  a  week,  to  take 
lessons  in  French,  music,  and  dancing.  Her  progress  in 
French  was  rapid,  and  the  correctness  and  elegance  of  her 
translations  surprised  her  teachers.  Her  friends  in  the  city, 
seeing  her  look  so  well  and  appear  so  sprightly,  encouraged 
her  to  believe  that  air  and  exercise  would  prove  more  bene 
ficial  than  confinement  to  the  house.  She  went  to  town  in 
the  morning  and  returned  in  the  evening  in  an  open  carriage, 
with  her  father  and  one  of  her  elder  brothers,  each  of  whom 
was  confined  to  his  respective  office  until  night.  In  this  way 
she  was  exposed  to  the  rigours  of  an  unusually  cold  season  ; 
yet  she  heeded  them  not,  but  returned  home  full  of  animation 
to  join  ner  little  brothers  in  preparations  for  their  holiday  fete. 
Their  anticipations  of  a  joyous  Christmas  were  doomed  to 


BIOGRAPHY.  47 

sad  disappointment.  As  the  time  approached,  two  of  her 
brothers  were  taken  ill.*  One  of  these,  a  beautiful  boy  about 
nine  years  of  age,  had  been  the  favourite  companion  of  her 
recreations,  and  she  had  taken  great  interest  in  his  mental 
improvement.  "  Towards  the  close  of  1835,"  says  her 
mother,  "he  began  to  droop;  his  cheek  grew  pale,  his  step 
languid,  and  his  bright  eye  heavy.  Instead  of  rolling  the 
hoop,  and  bounding  across  the  lawn  to  meet  his  sister  on  her 
return  from  the  city,  he  drooped  by  the  side  of  his  feeble 
mother,  and  could  not  bear  to  be  parted  from  her;  at  length 
he  was  taken  to  his  bed,  and,  after  lingering  four  months,  he 
died.  This  was  Margaret's  first  acquaintance  with  death. 
She  witnessed  his  gradual  decay  almost  unconsciously,  but 
still  persuaded  herself  '  he  will,  he  must  get  well  !'  She  saw 
her  sweet  little  playfellow  reclining  upon  my  bosom  during 
his  last  agonies ;  she  witnessed  the  bright  glow  which  flashed 
upon  his  long-faded  cheek ;  she  beheld  the  unearthly  light  of 
his  beautiful  eve,  as  he  pressed  his  dying  lips  to  mine,  and 
exclaimed,  *  Mother!  dear  mother!  the  last  hour  has  come!' 
Oh  !  it  was  indeed  an  hour  of  anguish  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Its  effect  upon  her  youthful  mind  was  as  lasting  as  her  life. 
The  sudden  change  from  life  and  animation  to  the  still  uncon 
sciousness  of  death,  for  the  time  almost  paralysed  her.  She 
shed  no  tear,  but  stood  like  a  statue  upon  the  scene  of  death. 
But  when  her  eldest  brother  tenderly  led  her  from  the  room, 
her  tears  gushed  forth — it  was  near  midnight,  and  the  first 
thing  that  aroused  her  to  a  sense  of  what  was  going  on 
around  her,  was  the  thought  of  rny  bereavement,  and  a  con 
viction  that  it  was  her  province  to  console  me." 

We  subjoin  a  record,  from  her  own  pen,  of  her  feelings  on 
this  lamentable  occasion. 

ON  THE  CORPSE  OF  MY  LITTLE  BROTHER  KENT. 

Beauteous  form  of  soulless  clay  ! 

Image  of  what  once  was  life  ! 
Hush'd  is  thy  pulse's  feeble  play, 

And  ceased  the  pangs  of  mortal  strife. 

Oh  !  I  have  heard  thy  dying  groan, 

Have  seen  thy  last  of  earthly  pain  ; 
And  while  I  weep  that,  thou  art  gone, 

I  cannot  wish  thee  here  again. 

For  ah  !  the  calm  and  peaceful  smile 

Upon  that  clay-cold  brow  of  thine, 
Speaks  of  a  spirit  freed  from  sin, 

A  spirit  joyful  and  divine. 


48  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  thou  art  gone  !  and  this  cold  clay 

Is  all  that  now  remains  of  thee ; 
For  thy  freed  soul  hath  wing'd  its  way 

To  blessed  immortality. 

That  dying  smile,  that  dying  groan, 

I  never,  never  can  forget, 
Till  death's  cold  hand  hath  clasp'd  my  own, 

His  impress  on  my  brow  has  set. 

Those  low,  and  sweet,  and  plaintive  tones, 
Which  o'er  my  heart  like  music  swept, 

And  the  deep,  deathlike,  chilling  moans, 
Which  from  thy  heaving  bosom  crept. 

Oh  !  thou  wert  beautiful  and  fair, 

Our  loveliest  and  our  dearest  one  ! 
No  more  thy  pains  or  joys  we  share, 

No  more — my  brother,  thou  art  gone. 

Thou  'rt  gone !    What  agony,  what  woe 

In  that  brief  sentence  is  express'd  ! 
Oh  that  the  burning  tears  could  flow, 

Arid  draw  this  mountain  from  my  breast ! 

The  anguish  of  the  mother  was  still  more  intense,  as  she 
saw  her  bright  and  beautiful  but  perishable  offspring  thus, 
one  by  one,  snatched  away  from  her.  "  My  own  weak 
frame,"  says  she,  "  was  unable  longer  to  sustain  the  effects 
of  long  watching  and  deep  grief.  I  had  not  only  lost  my 
lovely  boy,  but  I  felt  a  strong  conviction  that  I  must  soon 
resign  my  Margaret;  or  rather,  that  she  would  soon  follow 
me  to  a  premature  grave.  Although  she  still  persisted  in  the 
belief  that  she  was  well,  the  irritating  cough,  the  hectic  flush, 
(so  often  mistaken  for  the  bloom  of  health,)  the  hurried  beat 
ing  of  the  heart,  and  the  drenching  night  perspirations  con 
firmed  me  in  this  belief,  and  I  sank  under  this  accumulated 
load  of  affliction.  For  three  weeks  I  hovered  upon  the  bor 
ders  of  the  grave,  and  when  I  arose  from  this  bed  of  pain — 
so  feeble  that  I  could  not  sustain  my  own  weight,  it  was  to 
witness  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  in  her  lungs,  caused  by 
exertions  to  suppress  a  cough.  Oh  !  it  was  agony  to  see  her 
thus!  I  was  compelled  to  conceal  every  appearance  of  alarm, 
lest  the  agitation  of  her  mind  should  produce  fatal  conse 
quences.  As  I  seated  myself  by  her,  she  raised  her  speaking 
eyes  to  mine  with  a  mournful,  inquiring  gaze,  and  as  she  read 
the  anguish  which  I  could  not  conceal,  she  turned  away  with 
a  look  of  despair.  She  spoke  not  a  word,  but  silence,  still, 
deathlike  silence,  pervaded  the  apartment."  The  best  of 
medical  aid  was  railed  in,  but  the  physicians  gave  no  hope; 
they  considered  it  a  deep-seated  case  of  pulmonary  consump- 


BIOGRAPHY.  49 

tion.  All  that  could  be  done  was  to  alleviate  the  symptoms, 
and  protract  life  as  long  as  possible  by  lessening  the  excite 
ment  of  the  system.  When  Mrs.  Davidson  returned  to  the 
bedside,  after  an  interview  with  the  physicians,  she  was  re 
garded  with  an  anxious,  searching  look,  by  the  lovely  little 
sufferer,  but  not  a  question  was  made.  Margaret  seemed 
fearful  of  receiving  a  discouraging  reply,  and  "  lay,  all  pale 
and  still,  (except  when  agitated  by  the  cough,)  striving  to 
calm  the  tumult  of  her  thoughts,"  while  her  mother  seated 
herself  by  her  pillow,  trembling  with  weakness  and  sorrow. 
Long  and  anxious  were  the  days  and  nights  spent  in  watching 
over  her.  Every  sudden  movement  or  emotion  excited  the 
hemorrhage.  "Not  a  murmur  escaped  her  lips,"  says  her 
mother,  "  during  her  protracted  sufferings.  l  How  are  you, 
love?  how  have  you  rested  during  the  night?'  'Well,  dear 
mamma ;  I  have  slept  sweetly.'  I  have  been  night  after 
night  beside  her  restless  couch,  wiped  the  cold  dew  from  her 
brow,  and  kissed  her  faded  cheek  in  all  the  agony  of  grief, 
while  she  unconsciously  slept  on ;  or  if  she  did  awake,  her 
calm  sweet  smile,  which  seemed  to  emanate  from  heaven,  has, 
spite  of  my  reason,  lighted  my  heart  with  hope.  Except 
when  very  ill,  she  was  ever  a  bright  dreamer.  Her  visions 
were  usually  of  an  unearthly  cast:  about  heaven  and  angels. 
She  was  wandering  among  the  stars ;  her  sainted  sisters  were 
her  pioneers ;  her  cherub  brother  walked  hand  in  hand  with 
her  through  the  gardens'  of  paradise !  I  was  always  an  early 
riser,  but  after  Margaret  began  to  decline  I  never  disturbed 
her  until  time  to  rise  for  breakfast,  a  season  of  social  inter 
course  in  which  she  delighted  to  unite,  and  from  which  she 
was  never  willing  to  be  absent.  Often  when  I  have  spoken 
to  her  she  would  exclaim,  '  Mother,  you  have  disturbed  the 
brightest  visions  that  ever  mortal  was  blessed  with !  I  was  in 
the  midst  of  such  scenes  of  delight !  Cannot  I  have  time  to 
finish  my  dream?'  And  when  I  told  her  how  long  it  was 
until  breakfast,  l  It  will  do,'  she  would  say,  and  again  lose 
herself  in  her  bright  imaginings ;  for  I  considered  these  as 
moments  of  inspiration  rather  than  sleep.  She  told  me  it  was 
not  sleep.  I  never  knew  but  one,  except  Margaret,  who  en 
joyed  this  delightful  and  mysterious  source  of  happiness  :  that 
one  was  her  departed  sister  Lucretia.  When  awaking  from 
these  reveries,  an  almost  ethereal  light  played  about  her  eye, 
which  seemed  to  irradiate  her  whole  face.  A  holy  calm  per 
vaded  her  manner,  and  in  truth  she  looked  moie  like  an  angel 
4* 


50  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

who  had  been  communing  with  kindred  spirits  in  the  world 
of  light,  than  any  thing  of  a  grosser  nature." 

How  truly  does  this  correspond  with  Milton's  exquisite 
description  of  the  heavenly  influences  that  minister  to  virgin 
innocence — 

"  A  thousand  liv'ried  angels  lackey  her, 
Driving  far  off'  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt ; 
And  in  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision, 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear: 
Till  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habitants 
Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  the  outward  shape, 
The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 
And  turn  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's  essence, 
Till  all  be  made  immortal." 

Of  the  images  and  speculations  that  floated  in  her  mind 
during  these  half  dreams,  half  reveries,  we  may  form  an  idea 
from  the  following  lines,  written  on  one  occasion  after  what 
her  mother  used  to  term  her  "  descent  into  the  world  of 
reality." 

THE  JOYS  OF  HEAVEN. 

Oh  who  can  tell  the  joy  and  peace 

Which  souls  redeem'd  shall  know, 
When  all  their  earthly  sorrows  cease, 

Their  pride,  and  pain,  and  woe  ! 
Who  may  describe  the  matchless  love 
Which  reigneth  with  the  saints  above  ? 

What  earthly  tongue  can  ever  tell 

The  pure,  unclouded  joy 
Which  in  each  gentle  soul  doth  swell, 

Unmingled  with  alloy, 
As,  bending  to  the  Lord  Most  High, 
They  sound  his  praises  through  the  sky  ? 

Through  the  high  regions  of  the  air, 

On  angels'   wings,  they  glide. 
And  gaze  in  wondering  silence  there 

On  scenes  to  us  denied  : 
Their  minds  expanding  every  hour, 
And  opening  like  the  summer  flower. 

Though  not  like  them  to  fade  away, 

To  die,  and  bloom  no  more ; 
Beyond  the  reach  of  fell  decay, 

They  stand  in  light  and  power; 
But  pure,  eternal,  free  from  care, 
They  join  in  endless  praises  there ! 

When  first  they  leave  this  world  of  woo 

For  fair,  immortal  scenes  of  light, 
Angels  attend  them  from  below, 

And  upward  wing  their  joyful  flight; 
Where,  fired  with  heavenly  rapture's  flame, 
They  raise  on  high  Jehovah's  name. 


BIOGRAPHY.  51 


O'er  the  broad  arch  of  heaven  it  peals, 
While  shouts  of  praise  unnumbered  flow; 

The  full,  sweet  notes  sublimely  swell, 
And  prostrate  angels  humbly  bow ; 

Each  heart  is  tuned  to  joy  above, 

Its  theme,  a  Saviour's  matchless  love. 

The  dulcet  voice,  which  here  below 
Charm'd  with  delight  each  listening  ear, 

Mix'd  with  no  lingering  lone  of  woe, 
Swelling  harmonious,  soft  and  clear, 

Will  sweetly  fill  the  courts  above, 

In  strains  of  heavenly  peace  and  love. 

The  brilliant  genius,  which  on  earth 

Is  struggling  with  disease  and  pain, 
"Will  there  untold  in  power  and  light, 

Nought  its  bright  current  to  restrain ; 
And  as  each  brilliant  day  rolls  on, 
'Twill  find  some  grace,  till  then  unknown. 

And  as  the  countless  years  flit  by, 

Their  minds  progressing  still, 
The  more  they  know,  these  saints  on  high 

Praise  more  His  sovereign  will ; 
No  breath  from  sorrow's  whirlwind  blast 
Around  their  footsteps  cast. 

From  their  high  throne  they  gaze  abroad 

On  vast  creaiion's  wondrous  plan, 
And  own  the  power,  the  might  of  God, 

In  each  resplendent  work  they  scan ; 
Though  sun  and  moon  to  nought  return, 
Like  stars  these  souls  redeem' d  shall  burn. 

Oh  !  who  could  wish  to  stay  below, 

If  sure  of  such  a  home  as  this, 
Where  streams  of  love  serenely  flow, 

And  every  heart  is  filled  with  bliss? 
They  praise,  and  worship,  and  adore 
The  Lord  of  heaven  for  ever  more. 

During  this  dangerous  illness  she  became  acquainted  with 
Miss  Sedgwick.  The  first  visit  of  that  most  excellent  and 
justly  distinguished  person,  was  when  Margaret  was  in  a 
state  of  extreme  debility.  It  laid  the  foundation  of  an  attach 
ment  on  the  part  of  the  latter,  which  continued  until  her 
death.  The  visit  was  repeated;  a  correspondence  afterwards 
took  place,  and  the  friendship  of  Miss  Sedgwick  became  to 
the  little  enthusiast  a  source  of  the  worthiest  pride  and  purest 
enjoyment  throughout  the  remainder  of  her  brief  existence. 

At  length  the  violence  of  her  malady  gave  way  to  skilful 
remedies  and  the  most  tender  and  unremitting  assiduity. 
When  enabled  to  leave  her  chamber,  she  rallied  her  spirits, 
made  great  exertions  to  be  cheerful,  and  strove  to  persuade 


53  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

herseif  that  all  might  yet  be  well  with  her.  Even  her  parents, 
with  that  singular  self-delusion  inseparable  from  this  cruelly 
flattering  malady,  began  to  indulge  a  trembling  hope  that  she 
might  still  be  spared  to  them. 

In  the  month  of  July,  her  health  being  sufficiently  re-esta 
blished  to  bear  the  fatigues  of  travelling,  she  was  taken  by 
her  mother  and  eldest  brother  on  a  tour  to  Dutchess  County 
and  the  western  part  of  New  York.  On  leaving  home,  she 
wrote  the  following  lines,  expressive  of  the  feelings  called 
forth  by  the  events  of  the  few  preceding  months,  and  of  a 
foreboding  that  she  should  never  return : 

FAREWELL  TO  RUREMONT. 

Oh !  sadly  I  gaze  on  this  beautiful  landscape, 
And  silent  and  slow  do  the  big  tear-drops  swell ; 

And  I  haste  to  my  task,  while  the  deep  sigh  is  breaking, 
To  bid  thee,  sweet  Ruremont,  a  lasting  farewell. 

Oh  !  soft  are  the  breezes  which  play  round  the  valley, 
And  warm  are  the  sunbeams  which  gild  thee  with  light, 

All  clear  and  serenely  the  deep  waves  are  rolling, 
The  sky  in  its  radiance  is  dazzlingly  bright. 

Oh !  gaily  the  birds  'mid  thy  dark  vines  are  sporting, 
And,  heaven-taught,  pouring  their  gladness  in  song ; 

While  the  rose  and  the  lily  their  fair  heads  are  bending 
To  hear  the  soft  anthems  float  gently  along. 

Full  many  an  hour  have  I  bent  o'er  thy  waters, 

Or  watch'd  the  light  clouds  with  a  joy-beaming  eye, 

Till,  delighted,  I  long'd  for  the  eagle's  swift  pinions, 
To  pierce  the  full  depths  of  that  beautiful  sky. 

Though  wild  were  the  fancies  which  dwelt  in  my  bosom, 
Though  endless  the  visions  which  swept  o'er  my  soul, 

Indulging  those  dreams  was  my  dearest  enjoyment — 
Enjoyment  unmingled,  unchained  by  control ! 

But  each  garden  of  earth  has  a  something  of  sorrow, 

A  thorn  in  its  rose,  or  a  blight  in  its  breeze, 
Though  blooming  as  Eden,  a  shadow  hangs  o'er  thee, 

The  spirit  of  darkness,  of  pain,  of  disease  ! 

Yes,  Ruremont!  thy  brow,  in  its  loveliness  deck'd, 

Is  entwined  with  a  fatal  but  beautiful  wreath, 
For  thy  green  leaves  have  shrunk  at  the  mourner's  cold  touch 

And  thy  pale  flowers  have  wept  in  the  presence  of  death. 

Yon  violets,  which  bloom  in  their  delicate  freshness, 
Were  strew'd  o'er  the  grave  of  our  fairest  and  best ; 

Yon  roses,  which  charm  by  their  richness  and  fragrance, 
Have  wither'd  and  died  on  his  icy-cold  breast.  ' 


BIOGRAPHY.  53 

The  soft  voice  of  spring  had  just  breathed  o'er  the  valley, 
The  sweet  birds  just  caroll'd  their  song  in  her  bower, 

When  the  angel  of  death  in  his  terror  swept  o'er  us, 
And  placed  in  his  bosom  our  fragile  young  flower. 

Thus,  Ruremont,  we  mourn  not  thy  beauties  alone, 
Thy  flowers  in  their  freshness,  thy  stream  in  its  pride, 

But  we  leave  the  loved  scene  of  our  mourning  and  tears, 
We  leave  the  dear  spot  where  our  cherish' d  one  died. 

The  mantle  of  beauty  thrown  gracefully  o'er  thee, 

Must  touch  a  soft  chord  in  each  delicate  heart ; 
But  the  tie  is  more  sacred  which  bids  us  deplore  thee, 

Endear'd  by  affliction  'tis  harder  to  part. 

The  scene  of  enjoyment  is  ever  most  lovely, 

Where  blissful  young  spirits  dance  mirthful  and  glad ; 

But  when  sorrow  has  mingled  her  tears  with  our  pleasure, 
Our  love  is  more  tender,  our  parting  more  sad. 

How  mild  is  the  wing  of  this  delicate  zephyr, 

Which  fans  in  its  coolness  my  feverish  brow ! 
But  that,  light  wing  is  laden  with  breezes  that  wither, 

And  check  the  warm  current  of  life  in  its  flow. 

Why  blight  such  an  Eden,  oh  spirit  of  terror ! 

Which  sweepest  thy  thousands  each  hour  to  the  tomb  ? 
Why,  why  shouldst  thou  roam  o'er  this  beautiful  valley, 

And  mingle  thy  breath  with  the  rose's  perfume? 

The  sun  rises  bright  o'er  the  clear  dancing  waters, 
And  tinges  with  gold  every  light  waving  tree, 

And  the  young  birds  are  singing  their  welcome  to  morning- 
Alas  !  they  will  sing  it  no  longer  for  me ! 

The  young  buds  of  summer  their  soft  eyes  are  opening, 
The  wild  flowers  are  bending  the  pure  ripples  o'er ; 

But  I  bid  them  farewell,  and  my  heart  is  nigh  breaking 
To  think  I  shall  see  them  and  tend  them  no  more. 

I  mark  yonder  path,  where  so  often  I've  wander'd, 
Yon  moss-covered  rock,  with  its  sheltering  tree. 

And  a  sigh  of  deep  sadness  bursts  forth  to  remember 
That  no  more  its  soft  verdure  shall  blossom  for  me. 

How  often  my  thoughts,  to  these  loved  scenes  returning, 
Shall  brood  o'er  the  past  with  its  joy  and  its  pain : 

Till  waking  at  last  from  the  long,  pleasing  slumber, 
I  sigh  to  behold  thee,  thus  blooming,  again. 

The  little  party  was  absent  on  its  western  tour  about  two 
months.  "  Margaret,"  says  her  mother,  "  appeared  to  enjoy 
the  scenery,  and  every  thing  during  the  journey  interested 
her.  But  there  was  a  sadness  in  her  countenance,  a  pensive- 
ness  in  her  manner,  unless  excited  by  external  circumstances, 
which  deeply  affected  me.  She  watched  every  variation  in 
my  countenance ;  marked  every  little  attention  directed  to 


54  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

herself,  such  as  an  alteration  in  her  diet,  dress,  exposure  to 
the  changes  of  weather,  yet  still  discovered  an  unwillingness 
to  speak  of  her  declining  health,  and  laboured  to  conceal  every 
unfavourable  symptom  or  change  for  the  worse.  This,  of- 
course,  imposed  upon  me  the  most  painful  restraint.  How 
heart-breaking  to  find  that  she  considered  my  tongue  as  the 
herald  of  mournful  tidings,  and  my  face  as  the  mirror  of  evil 
to  come !  How  true  that  self-deception  seems  to  be  almost  an 
invariable  sympton  attending  this  dreadful  complaint!  Mar 
garet,  all  unconscious  of  the  rapid  strides  of  the  destroyer, 
taught  herself  to  believe  that  the  alarming  symptoms  of  her 
case  existed  only  in  the  imagination  of  her  too  anxious  mo 
ther.  Yet  knowing  my  experience  in  these  matters,  she  still 
doubted  and  trembled,  and  feared  to  ask,  lest  a  confirmation 
of  her  vague  apprehensions  should  be  the  result.  She  avoided 
the  slightest  allusion  to  the  subject  of  her  disease  in  any  way  ; 
and  in  the  morbid  excitement  of  her  mind  it  appeared  to  her 
almost  like  accusing  her  of  something  wrong  to  say  that  she 
was  not  well." 

The  following  letter  was  written  by  her  to  Miss  Sedgwick, 
after  her  arrival  in  Dutchess  County. 

"  Lithgow,  Dutchess  County. 

"Happy  as  I  am,  my  dear  madam,  in  the  privilege  of 
writing  to  you,  I  cannot  permit  another  day  to  pass  ere  I 
inform  you  of  our  safe  arrival  at  one  of  the  most  lovely 
spots  in  this  beautiful  and  healthy  country.  Our  passage 
up  the  river  was  rather  tedious,  being  debarred  the  pleasure 
of  remaining  upon  deck,  but  this  privation  was  counter 
balanced  by  the  pleasure  of  a  few  moments1  conversation 
with  my  dear  brother,  who  was  permitted  to  meet  us  when 
the  boat  stopped  at  West  Point.  Arrived  at  Poughkeepsie, 
brother  M.  procured  a  private  carriage,  which  was  to 
convey  us  to  the  end  of  our  journey,  a  distance  of  twenty 
miles.  The  drive  was  delightful !  The  scenery  ever  chang 
ing,  ever  beautiful!  We  arrived  at  Lithgow  without  much 
fatigue,  where  a  hearty  welcome,  that  sweetest  of  cordials, 
was  awaiting-  us.  Oh  !  it  is  a  lovely  spot !  I  thought  Rure- 
mont  the  perfection  of  beauty !  but  here  I  find  the  flowers 
are  as  blooming,  the  birds  as  gay,  the  air  as  sweet,  and  the 
prospect  far  more  varied  and  extensive;  'tis  true  we  have 
lost  the  beautiful  East  River,  with  its  crowd  of  vessels 
sweeping1  gracefully  along,  but  here  are  hills  crowned  with 
the  richest  foliage,  valleys  sprinkled  with  flowers,  and  wa 
tered  with  winding  rivulets;  and  here,  what  we  prize  more 
than  all,  a  mild,  salubrious  air,  which  seems,  in  the  words 


BIOGRAPHY.  55 

of  the  divine  poet,  "  to  bear  healing  in  its  wings."  Dear 
mother  bore  the  fatigue  of  our  journey  better  than  we 
anticipated  ;  and  although  I  do  not  think  she  is  permanently 
better,  she  certainly  breathes  more  freely,  and  seems  alto 
gether  more  comfortable  than  when  in  the  city.  Oh!  how 
sincerely  I  hope  that  a  change  of  air  and  scene  may  raise 
her  spirits  and  renovate  her  strength.  She  is  now  in  the 
midst  of  friends  whom  she  has  known  and  loved  for  many 
years;  and  surrounded  by  scenes  connected  with  many  of 
her  earliest  remembrances.  Farewell,  my  clear  madam  ! 
Please  give  my  love  to  your  dear  little  nieces ;  and  should 
you  have  the  leisure  and  inclination  to  answer  this,  believe 
me  your  letter  will  be  a  source  of  much  gratification  to 
your 

Highly  obliged  little  friend, 

M.  M.  DAVIDSON. 
Miss  CATHERINE  SEDGWICK. 

August,  1836." 

The  travellers  returned  to  Ruremont  in  September.  The 
tour  had  been  of  service  to  Margaret,  and  she  endeavoured  to 
persuade  herself  that  she  was  quite  well.  If  asked  about  her 
health,  her  reply  was,  that  "  if  her  friends  did  not  tell  her  she 
was  ill,  she  should  not,  from  her  own  feelings,  suspect  it." 
That  she  was,  notwithstanding,  dubious  on  this  subject,  was 
evident  from  her  avoiding  to  speak  about  it,  and  from  the 
uneasiness  she  manifested  when  it  was  alluded  to.  It  was 
still  more  evident  from  the  change  that  took  place  in  her 
habits  and  pursuits;  she  tacitly  adopted  the  course  of  conduct 
that  had  repeatedly  and  anxiously,  but  too  often  vainly,  been 
urged  by  her  mother,  as  calculated  to  allay  the  morbid  irrita 
bility  of  her  system.  She  gave  up  her  studies,  rarely  in 
dulged  in  writing  or  drawing,  and  contented  herself  with  light 
reading,  with  playing  a  few  simple  airs  on  the  piano,  and  with 
any  other  trivial  mode  of  passing  away  the  time.  The  want 
of  her  favourite  occupations,  however,  soon  made  the  hours 
move  heavily  with  her.  Above  all  things,  she  missed  the 
exciting  exercise  of  the  pen,  against  which  she  had  been 
especially  warned.  Her  mother  observed  the  listlessness  and 
melancholy  that  were  stealing  over  her,  and  hoped  a  change 
of  scene  might  banish  them.  The  airs  from  the  river,  too, 
had  been  pronounced  unfavourable  to  her  health  ;  the  family, 
therefore,  removed  to  town.  The  change  of  residence,  how 
ever,  did  not  produce  the  desired  effect.  She  became  more 
and  more  dissatisfied  with  herself,  and  with  the  life  of  idle- 
ness,  as  she  considered  it,  that  she  was  leading;  but  still  she 


56  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

had  resolved  to  give  the  prescribed  system  a  thorough  trial 
A  new  source  of  solicitude  was  now  awakened  in  the  bosom 
of  her  anxious  mother,  who  read  in  her  mournfully  quiet 
manner  and  submissive  silence,  the  painful  effects  of  com 
pliance  with  her  advice.  There  was  not  a  murmur,  however, 
from  the  lips  of  Margaret,  to  give  rise  to  this  solicitude;  on 
the  contrary,  whenever  she  caught  her  mother's  eye  fixed 
anxiously  and  inquiringly  on  her,  she  would  turn  away  and 
assume  an  air  of  cheerfulness. 

Six  months  had  passed  in  this  inactive  manner.  "  She 
was  seated  one  day  by  my  side,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson, 
*  weary  and  restless,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  to  do  with 
herself,  when,  marking  the  traces  of  grief  upon  my  face,  she 
threw  her  arms  about  my  neck,  and  kissing  me,  exclaimed, 

*  My  dear,  dear  mother !'    '  What  is  it  affects  you  now,  my 
child?'   *  Oh  !  I  know  you  are  longing  for  something  from 
my  pen  !'     I  saw  the  secret  craving  of  the  spirit  that  gave 
rise  to  the  suggestion.     '  I  do  indeed,  my  dear,  delight  in  the 
effusions   from  your  pen,  but  the  exertion  will  injure  you.' 

*  Mamma,  I  must  write!    I  can  hold  out  no  longer!   I  will 
return  to  my  pen,  my  pencil,  and  my  books,  and  shall  again 
be  happy  !'     I  pressed  her  to  my  bosom,  and  cautioned  her 
to  remember  she  was  feeble.     '  Mother,'  exclaimed  she,  *  I 
am  well  !    I  wish  you  were  only  as  well  as  I  am  !'  " 

The  heart  of  the  mother  was  not  proof  against  these  appeals : 
indeed  she  had  almost  as  much  need  of  self-denial  on  this 
subject  as  her  child,  so  much  did  she  delight  in  these  early 
blossomings  of  her  talent.  Margaret  was  again  left  to  her 
own  impulses.  All  the  frivolous  expedients  for  what  is  usually 
termed  killing  time  were  discarded  by  her  with  contempt  ; 
her  studies  were  resumed ;  in  the  sacred  writings  and  in  the 
pages  of  history  she  sought  fitting  aliment  for  her  mind,  half 
famished  by  its  long  abstinence ;  her  poetical  vein  again  burst 
forth,  and  the  following  lines,  written  at  the  time,  show  the 
excitement  and  elevation  of  her  feelings : 

EARTH. 

Earth !  thou  hast  nought  to  satisfy 

The  cravings  of  immortal  mind  ! 
Earth!  thou  hast  nothing  pure  and  high, 

The  soaring,  struggling  soul  to  bind. 

Impatient  of  its  long  delay, 

The  pinion'd  spirit  fain  would  roam, 
And  leave  this  crumbling  house  of  clay, 

To  seek  above  its  own  bright  home . 


BIOGRAPHY.  57 

The  spirit,  'tis  a  spark  of  light 

Struck  from  our  God's  eternal  throne, 
Which  pierces  through  these  clouds  of  night, 

And  longs  to  shine  where  once  it  shone ! 

Earth !  there  will  come  an  awful  day, 

When  thou  shall  crumble  into  nought ; 
When  thou  shait  melt  beneath  that  ray 

From  whence  thy  splendours  first  were  caught. 

Quench' d  in  the  glories  of  its  God, 

Yon  burning  lamp  shall  then  expire ; 
And  flames,  from  heaven's  own  altar  sent, 

Shall  light  the  great  funereal  pyre. 

Yes,  thou  must  die  !  and  yon  pure  depths 

Back  from  thy  darken' d  brow  shall  roll ; 
But  never  can  the  tyrant  death 

Arrest  this  feeble,  trusting  soul. 

When  that  great  voice,  which  form'd  thee  first, 

Shall  tell,  surrounding  world,  thy  doom, 
Then  the  pure  soul,  enchain'd  by  thee, 

Shall  rise  triumphant  o'er  thy  tomb. 

Then  on,  still  on,  the  unfetter'd  mind 

Through  realms  of  endless  space  shall  fly; 
No  earth  to  dim,  no  chain  to  bind, 

Too  pure  to  sin,  too  great  to  die. 

Earth !  thou  hast  nought  to  satisfy 

The  cravings  of  immortal  mind ! 
Earth !  thou  hast  nothing  pure  and  high, 

The  soaring,  struggling  soul  to  bind. 

Yet  is  this  never-dying  ray 

Caught  in  thy  cold,  delusive  snares, 
Cased  in  a  cell  of  mouldering  clay, 

And  bow'd  by  woes,  and  pain,  and  cares! 

Oh !  how  mysterious  is  the  bond 

Which  blends  the  earthly  with  the  pure, 
And  mingles  that  which  death  may  blight 

With  that  which  ever  must  endure  ! 

Arise,  my  soul,  from  all  below, 

And  gaze  upon  thy  destined  home, 
The  heaven  of  heavens,  the  throne  of  Godf 

Where  sin  and  care  can  never  come. 

Prepare  thee  for  a  state  of  bliss, 

Unclouded  by  this  mortal  veil, 
Where  thou  shalt  see  thy  Maker's  face, 

And  dews  from  heaven's  own  ah-  inhale. 

How  sadly  do  the  sins  of  earth 

Deface  thy  purity  and  light, 
That  thus,  while  gazing  at  myself, 

Thou  shrink'st  in  horror  at  the  sight! 


•^  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Compound  of  weakness  and  of  strength, 

Mighty,  yet  ignorant  of  thy  power ! 
Loftier  than  earth,  or  air,  or  sea, 

Yet  meaner  than  the  lowliest  flower ! 

Soaring  towards  heaven,  yet  clinging  still 

To  earth,  by  many  a  tender  tie ! 
Longing  to  breathe  a  purer  air, 

Yet  fearing,  trembling  thus  to  die  ! 

She  was  soon  all  cheerfulness  and  enjoyment.  Her  pen 
and  her  pencil  were  frequently  in  her  hand ;  she  occupied 
herself  also  with  her  needle  in  embroidery  on  canvass,  and 
other  fancy  work.  Hope  brightened  with  the  exhilaration  of 
her  spirits.  "  1  now  walk  and  ride,  eat  and  sleep  as  usual," 
she  observes  in  a  letter  to  a  young  friend,  "and  although  not 
well,  have  strong  hopes  that  the  opening  spring,  which  reno 
vates  the  flowers,  and  fields,  and  streams,  will  revive  my  en 
feebled  frame,  and  restore  me  to  my  wonted  health."  In 
these  moods  she  was  the  life  of  the  domestic  circle,  and  these 
moods  were  frequent  and  long.  And  here  we  should  observe, 
that  though  these  memoirs,  which  are  furnished  principally 
from  the  recollections  of  an  afflicted  mother,  may  too  often 
represent  this  gifted  little  being  as  a  feeble  invalid  struggling 
with  mortality,  yet  in  truth  her  life,  though  a  brief,  was  a 
bright  and  happy  one.  At  times  she  was  full  of  playful  and 
innocent  gaiety ;  at  others  of  intense  mental  exaltation  ;  and 
it  was  the  very  intensity  of  her  enjoyment  that  made  her  so 
often  indulge  in  those  poetic,  paroxysms,  if  we  may  be  allowed 
the  expression,  which  filled  her  mother  with  alarm.  A  few 
weeks  of  this  intellectual  excitement  was  followed  by  another 
rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  in  the  lungs,  and  a  long  interval  of 
extreme  debility.  The  succeeding  winter  was  one  of  vicissi 
tude.  She  had  several  attacks  of  bleeding  at  the  lungs,  which 
evidently  alarmed  her  at  the  time,  though  she  said  nothing, 
and  endeavoured  to  repress  all  manifestation  of  her  feelings. 
If  taken  suddenly,  she  instantly  resorted  to  the  sofa,  and,  by 
a  strong  effort,  strove  to  suppress  every  emotion.  With  her 
eyes  closed,  her  lips  compressed,  and  her  thin  pale  hand  rest 
ing  in  that  of  her  anxious  mother,  she  seemed  to  be  waiting 
rhe  issue.  Not  a  murmur  would  escape  her  lips,  nor  did  she 
ever  complain  of  pain.  She  would  often  say,  by  way  of  con 
solation  to  her  mother,  "  Mamma,  I  am  highly  favoured.  I 
hardly  know  what  is  meant  by  pain.  I  am  sure  I  never,  to 
my  recollection,  have  felt  it."  The  moment  she  was  able  to 
sit  up,,  after  one  of  these  alarming  attacks,  every  vestige  of  a 


BIOGRAPHY.  59 

sick  chamber  must  be  removed.  No  medicine,  no  cap,  no 
bed-gown,  no  loose  wrapper  must  be  in  sight.  Her  beautiful 
dark  hair  must  be  parted  on  her  broad,  high  forehead,  her 
dress  arranged  with  the  same  care  and  neatness  as  when  in 
perfect  health ;  indeed  she  studied  to  banish  from  her  appear 
ance  all  that  might  remind  her  friends  that  her  health  was 
impaired,  and,  if  possible,  to  drive  the  idea  from  her  own 
thoughts.  Her  reply  to  every  inquiry  about  her  health  was, 
"  Well,  quite  well ;  or  at  least  /  feel  so,  though  mother  con 
tinues  to  treat  me  as  an  invalid.  True  I  have  a  cold, 
attended  by  a  cough,  that  is  not  willing  to  leave  me;  but 
when  the  spring  returns,  with  its  mild  air  and  sweet  blossoms, 
I  think  this  cough,  which  alarms  mother  so  much,  will  leave 
me." 

She  had,  indeed,  a  strong  desire  to  live  ;  and  the  cause  of 
that  desire  is  indicative  of  her  character.  With  all  her  retiring 
modesty,  she  had  an  ardent  desire  for  literary  distinction. 
The  example  of  her  sister  Lucretia  was  incessantly  before 
her ;  she  was  her  leading  star,  and  her  whole  soul  was  but  to 
emulate  her  soarings  into  the  pure  regions  of  poetry.  Her 
apprehensions  were  that  she  might  be  cut  off  in  the  immatur 
ity  of  her  powers.  A  simple,  but  most  touching  ejaculation, 
betrayed  this  feeling,  as,  when  lying  on  a  sofa,  in  one  of  those 
alarming  paroxysms  of  her  malady,  she  turned  her  eyes,  full 
of  mournful  sweetness,  upon  her  mother,  and,  in  a  low,  sub 
dued  voice,  exclaimed,  "  Oh !  my  dear,  dear  mother  !  I  am 
so  young!" 

We  have  said  that  the  example  of  her  sister  Lucretia  was 
incessantly  before  her,  and  no  better  proof  can  be  given  of  it 
than  in  the  following  lines,  written  at  this  time,  which  breathe 
the  heavenly  aspirations  of  her  pure  young  spirit,  in  strains, 
to  us,  quite  unearthly.  We  may  have  read  poetry  more 
artificially  perfect  in  its  structure,  but  never  any  more  truly 
divine  in  its  inspiration. 

TO  MY  SISTER  LUCRETIA. 

My  sister !  With  that  thrilling  word 

What  thoughts  unnumber'd  wildly  spring! 

What  echoes  irvttiy  heart  are  stirr'd, 
While  thus  I  touch  the  trembling  string ! 

My  sister !  ere  this  youthful  mind 

Could  feel  the  value  of  thine  own ; 
Ere  this  infantine  heart  could  bind, 

In  its  deep  cell,  one  look,  one  tone. 


60  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON 

To  glide  along  on  memory's  stream, 
And  bring  back  thrilling  thoughts  of  thee 

Ere  I  knew  aught  but  childhood's  dream, 
Thy  soul  had  struggled  and  was  free  1 

My  sister!  with  this  mortal  eye, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thy  form  again; 

And  never  shall  this  mortal  ear 

Drink  in  the  sweetness  of  thy  strain ! 

Yet  fancy  wild,  and  glowing  love, 
Reveal  thee  to  my  spirit's  view, 

Enwreath'd  with  graces  from  above, 
And  deck'd  in  heaven's  own  fadeless  hu». 

Thy  glance  of  pure  seraphic  light 
Sheds  o'er  my  heart  its  soft'ning  ray  ; 

Thy  pinions  guard  my  couch  by  night, 
And  hover  o'er  my  path  by  day. 

I  cannot  weep  that  thou  art  fled, — 
For  ever  blends  my  soul  with  thine ; 

Each  thought,  by  purer  impulse  led, 
Is  soaring  on  to  realms  divine. 

Thy  glance  unfolds  my  heart  of  hearts, 
And  lays  its  inmost  recess  bare  ; 

Thy  voice  a  heavenly  calm  imparts, 
And  soothes  each  wilder  passion  there. 

I  hear  thee  in  the  summer  breeze, 
See  thee  in  all  that 's  pure  or  fair ; 

Thy  whisper  in  the  murmuring  trees, 
Thy  breath,  thy  spirit  everywhere. 

Thine  eyes,  which  watch  when  mortals  sleep, 
Cast  o'er  my  dreams  a  radiant  hue  ; 

Thy  tears,  "  such  tears  as  angels  weep," 
Fall  nightly  with  the  glistening  dew. 

Thy  fingers  wake  my  youthful  lyre, 
And  teach  its  softer  strains  to  flow  ; 

Thy  spirit  checks  each  vain  desire, 
And  gilds  the  low'ring  brow  of  woe. 

When  fancy  wings  her  upward  flight 
On  through  the  viewless  realms  of  air, 

Clothed  in  its  robe  of  matchless  light, 
I  view  thy  ransom'd  spirit  there  ! 

Far  from  her  wild  delusive  dreams, 
It  leads  my  raptured  soul  away, 

Where  the  pure  fount  of  glory  streams, 
And  saints  live  on  through  endless  day. 

When  the  dim  lamp  of  future  years 

Sheds  o'er  my  path  its  glimmering  faint, 

First  in  the  view  thy  form  appears, 
My  sister,  and  my  guardian  saint ! 


BIOGRAPHY.  61 


Thou  gem  of  light !  my  leading  star ! 

What  thou  hast  been,  I  strive  to  be ; 
When  from  the  path  I  wander  far, 

Oh  turn  thy  guiding  beam  on  me. 

Teach  me  to  fill  thy  place  below, 
That  I  may  dwell  with  thee  above ; 

To  soothe,  like  thee,  a  mother's  woe, 
And  prove,  like  thine,  a  sister's  love. 

Thou  wert  unfit  to  dwell  with  clay. 
For  sin  too  pure,  for  earth  too  bright ! 

And  death,  who  call'd  thee  hence  away, 
Placed  on  his  brow  a  gem  of  light ! 

A  gem,  whose  brilliant  glow  is  shed 
Beyond  the  ocean's  swelling  wave, 

Which  gilds  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
And  pours  its  radiance  on  thy  grave. 

When  day  hath  left  his  glowing  car, 
And  evening  spreads  her  robe  of  love ; 

When  worlds,  like  travellers  from  afar, 
Meet  in  the  azure  fields  above ; 

When  all  is  still,  and  fancy's  realm 

Is  opening  to  the  eager  view, 
Mine  eye  full  oft,  in  search  of  thee, 

Roams  o'er  that  vast  expanse  of  blue. 

I  know  that  here  thy  harp  is  mute, 
And  quench'd  the  bright  poetic  fire, 

Yet  still  I  bend  my  ear,  to  catch 
The  hymnings  of  thy  seraph  lyre. 

Oh !  if  this  partial  converse  now 

So  joyous  to  my  heart  can  be, 
How  must  the  streams  of  rapture  flow 

When  both  are  chainless,  both  are  free  ! 

When  borne  from  earth  for  evermore, 

Our  souls  in  sacred  joy  unite, 
At  God's  almighty  throne  adore, 

And  bathe  in  beams  of  endless  light ! 

Away,  away,  ecstatic  dream  ! 

I  must  not,  dare  not  dwell  on  thee  ; 
My  soul,  immersed  in  life's  dark  stream, 

Is  far  too  earthly  to  be  free. 

Though  heaven's  bright  portal  were  unclosed, 
And  angels  wooed  me  from  on  high, 

Too  much  I  fear  my  shrinking  soul 
Would  cast  on  earth  its  longing  eye. 

Teach  me  to  fill  thy  place  below, 
That  I  may  dwell  with  thee  above  ; 

To  soothe,  like  thee,  a  mother's  woe, 

And  prove,  like  thine,  a  sister's  love. 
5* 


62  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

It  was  probably  this  trembling  solicitude  about  the  duration 
of  her  existence,  that  made  her  so  anxious,  about  this  time, 
to  employ  every  interval  of  her  precarious  health  in  the  cul 
tivation  of  her  mental  powers.  Certain  it  is,  during  the  win 
ter,  chequered  as  it  was  with  repeated  fits  of  indisposition, 
she  applied  herself  to  historical  and  other  studies  with  an 
ardour  that  often  made  her  mother  tremble  for  the  con 
sequences. 

The  following  letters  to  a  young  female  friend  were  written 
during  one  of  these  intervals. 

"New  York,  February  26,  1837. 

"  Notwithstanding  all  the  dangers  which  might  have  be 
fallen  your  letter,  my  dear  Henrietta,  it  arrived  safely  at  its 
resting-place,  and  is  now  lying  open  before  me,  as  I  am 
quietly  sitting,  this  chill  February  morning,  to  inform  you 
of  its  safe  arrival.  I  find  I  was  not  mistaken  in  believing 
you  too  kind  to  be  displeased  at  my  remissness ;  and  I  now 
hope  that  through  our  continued  intercourse  neither  will 
have  cause  to  complain  of  the  other's  negligence. 

"  For  my  own  part,  I  am  always  willing  to  assign  every 
reason  but  that  of  forgetfulness  for  a  friend's  silence.  Know 
ing  how  often  I  am  obliged  to  claim  this  indulgence  for  my 
self,  and  how  often  ill  health  prevents  me  from  writing  to 
those  I  love,  I  am  the  more  ready  to  frame  apologies  for 
others;  indeed  I  think  this  spirit  of  charity  (if  so  I  may  call 
it)  is  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  correspondents,  and  as 
I  am  sure  you  possess  it,  1  trust  we  shall  both  glide  quietly 
along  without  any  of  those  little  jars  which  so  often  inter 
rupt  the  purest  friendships.  And  now  that  my  dissertation 
on  letter- writing  is  at  an  end,  I  must  proceed  to  inform  you 
of  what  I  fear  will  be  a  disappointment,  as  it  breaks  away 
all  those  sweet  anticipations  expressed  in  your  affectionate 
letter.  Father  has  concluded  that  we  shall  not  return  to 
Plattsburgh  next  spring,  as  he  had  once  intended ;  he  fears 
the  effects  of  the  cold  winds  of  Lake  Champlain  upon  mo 
ther  and  myself,  who  are  both  delicate ;  and  as  we  have  so 
many  dear  friends  in  and  about  the  city,  &  nearer  location 
would  be  pleasanter  to  us  and  to  them.  We  now  think  se 
riously  of  returning  to  Ballston,  that  beautiful  little  village 
where  we  have  already  spent  two  delightful  years;  and 
though  in  this  case  I  must  relinquish  the  idea  of  visiting  my 
dear  'old  home'  and  my  dear  young  friend,  hope  points  to 
the  hour  when  you  may  become  my  guest,  and  where  the 
charms  of  novelty  will  in  some  degree  repay  us  for  the  de 
lightful  associations  and  remembrances  we  had  hoped  to 
enjoy.  But  I  cannot  help  now  and  then  casting  a  backward 
glance  upon  the  beautiful  scenes  you  describe,  and  wishing 


BIOGRAPHY.  63 

myself  with  you.  A  philosopher  would  say,  *  Since  you 
cannot  enjoy  what  you  desire,  turn  to  the  pleasures  you 
may  possess,  and  seek  in  them  consolation  for  what  you 
have  lost ;'  but  I  am  no  philosopher. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"  I  will  endeavour  to  answer  your  question  about  Mrs. 
Hemans.  I  have  read  several  lives  of  this  distinguished 
poetess,  by  different  authors,  and  in  all  of  them  find  some 
thing  new  to  admire  in  her  character  and  venerate  in  her 
genius!  She  was  a  woman  of  deep  feeling,  lively  fancy,  and 
acute  sensibilities ;  so  acute,  indeed,  as  to  have  formed  her 
chief  unhappiness  through  life.  She  mingles  her  own  feel 
ings  with  her  poems  so  well,  that  in  reading  them  you  read 
her  character.  But  there  is  one  thing  I  have  often  remarked : 
the  mind  soon  wearies  in  perusing  many  of  her  pieces  at 
once.  She  expresses  those  sweet  sentiments  so  often,  and 
introduces  the  same  stream  of  beautiful  ideas  so  constantly, 
that  they  sometimes  degenerate  into  monotony.  I  know 
of  no  higher  treat  than  to  read  a  few  of  her  best  produc 
tions,  and  comment  upon  and  feel  their  beauties ;  but  perus 
ing  her  volume  is  to  me  like  listening  to  a  strain  of  sweet 
music  repeated  over  and  over  again,  until  it  becomes  sc 
familiar  to  the  ear,  that  it  loses  the  charm  of  variety. 

"  Now,  dear  H.,  is  not  this  presumption  in  me,  to  criticise 
so  exquisite  an  author  1  But  you  desired  my  opinion,  and  1 
have  given  it  to  you  without  reserve. 

"  You  desire  me  to  send  you  an  original  poem  for  your 
self.  Now,  my  dear  Hetty,  this  is  something  I  am  not  at 
present  able  to  do  for  any  of  my  friends,  writing  being  sup 
posed  quite  injurious  to  persons  with  weak  lungs.  And  I 
have  still  another  reason.  You  say  the  effect  of  conveying 
feelings  from  the  heart  and  recording  them  upon  paper, 
seems  to  deprive  them  of  half  their  warmth  and  ardour : 
Now,  my  dear  friend,  would  not  the  effect  of  forming  them 
into  verse  seem  to  render  them  still  less  sincere !  Is  not 
plain  prose,  as  it  slides  rapidly  from  the  pen,  more  apt  to 
speak  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  than  when  an  hour  or  two 
is  spent  in  giving  them  rhyme  and  measure,  and  all  the 
attributes  of  poetry]"  ******* 

TO   THE   SAME. 

"  New  York,  April  3d,  1837. 

"  About  an  hour  since,  my  dear  Henrietta,  I  received  your 
token  of  remembrance,  and  commence  my  answer  with  an 
act  of  obedience  to  your  sovereign  will ;  but  I  fear  you  will 
repent  when  too  late,  and  while  nodding  over  the  closely 
written  sheet,  and  peering  impatiently  into  each  crowded 
corner,  you  will  secretly  wish  you  had  allowed  my  pen  to 


64  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

commence  its  operations  at  a  more  respectful  distance  from 
the  top  of  the  page.  However,  the  request  was  your  own: 
I  obey  like  an  obedient  friend,  and  you  must  abide  the  con 
sequences  of  your  rash  demand.  Should  the  first  glance 
at  my  well-filled  sheet  be  followed  by  a  yawn,  or  its  last 
word  be  welcomed  with  a  smile,  you  must  blame  your  own 
imprudence  in  bringing  down  upon  your  luckless  head  the 
accumulated  nothings  of  a  scribbler  like  myself.  It  is  indeed 
true  that  we  shall  not  return  to  Pittsburgh;  and  much  as  I 
long  to  revisit  the  home  of  my  infancy,  and  the  friends  of 
my  earliest  remembrance,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  relinquish 
the  pleasure  in  reality,  though  fancy,  unshackled  by  earth, 
shall  direct  her  pinions  to  the  north,  and  linger,  delighted, 
on  the  beautiful  banks  of  the  Champlain  !  Methinks  I  hear 
you  exclaim,  with  impatience,  '  Fancy  I  what  is  it  1  I  long 
for  something  more  substantial.'  So  do  I,  ma  chere,  but 
since  I  cannot  hope  to  behold  my  dear  native  village  and  its 
dear  inhabitants  with  other  eyes  than  those  of  fancy,  I  will 
e'en  employ  them  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  You  may  be 
sure  we  do  not  prefer  the  confined  and  murky  atmosphere 
of  the  city  to  the  pure  and  health-giving  breezes  of  the 
country ;  far  from  it — we  are  already  preparing  to  remove, 
as  soon  as  the  mild  influence  of  spring  has  prevailed  over 
the  chilling  blasts  which  we  still  hear  whistling  around  us ; 
and  gladly  shall  we  welcome  the  day  that  will  release  us 
from  our  bondage.  But  there  is  some  drawback  to  every 
pleasure — some  bitter  drop  in  almost  every  cup  of  enjoy 
ment;  and  we  shall  taste  this  most  keenly  when  we  bid 
farewell  to  the  delightful  circle  of  friends  who  have  cheered 
us  during  the  solitude  and  confinement  of  this  dreary  win 
ter.  The  New  York  air,  so  far  from  agreeing  with  us,  has 
deprived  us  of  every  enjoyment  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
our  own  walls,  and  it  will  be  hard  to  leave  those  friends 
who  have  taught  us  to  forget  the  privations  of  ill  health  in 
the  pleasure  of  their  society.  We  have  chosen  Ballston  for 
our  temporary  home,  from  the  hope  of  seeing  them  oftener 
there  than  we  could  in  a  secluded  town,  and  because  pure 
air,  medicinal  waters,  and  good  society  have  all  combined 
to  render  it  a  delightful  country  residence;  yet  with  all 
these  advantages,  it  can  never  possess  half  the  charms  of 
my  dear  old  home ! 

"  That  dear  old  home,  where  pass'd  my  childish  years, 
When  fond  affection  wiped  my  infant  tears  ! 
Where  first  I  learn' d  from  whence  my  blessings  came, 
And  lisp'd  in  faltering  tones,  a  mother's  name  ! 

"  That  dear  old  home,  where  memory  fondly  clings, 
Where  eager  fancy  spreads  her  soaring  wings ; 
Around  whose  scenes  my  thoughts  delight  to  stray, 
And  pass  the  hours  in  plensing  dreams  away  ! 


BIOGRAPHY.  VV  65 

"  Oh,  shall  I  ne'er  behold  thy  waves  again, 
My  native  lake,  my  beautiful  Champlain? 
Shall  I  no  more  above  thy  ripples  bend 
In  sweet  communion  with  my  childhood's  friend  ? 

"  Shall  I  no  more  behold  thy  rolling  wave, 
The  patriot's  cradle  and  the  warrior's  grave  ? 
Thy  mountains,  tinged  with  daylight's  parting  glow  ? 
Thy  islets,  mirror' d  in  the  stream  below  ? 

*'  Back  !  back ! — thou  present  !  robed  in  shadows  lie, 
And  rise,  thou  past;  before  my  raptured  eye ! 
Fancy  shall  gild  the  frowning  lapse  between, 
And  memory's  hand  shall  paint  the  glowing  scene  ! 

"  Lo !  how  the  view  beneath  her  pencil  grows ! 
The  flow'ret  blooms,  the  winding  streamlet  flows ; 
With  former  friends  I  trace  my  footsteps  o'er, 
And  muse,  delighted,  on  my  own  green  shore  ! 

"  Alas  it  fades — the  fairy  dream  is  past ! 
Dissolved  the  veil  by  sportive  fancy  cast. 
Oh  why  should  thus  our  brightest  dreams  depart, 
And  scenes  illusive  cheat  the  longing  heart  ? 

"  Where'er  through  future  life  my  steps  may  roam, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  spot  like  thee,  my  home  ; 
With  all  my  joys  the  thought  of  thee  shall  blend, 
And  joined  with  thee,  shall  rise  my  childhood's  friend. 

"  Mother  is  most  truly  alive  to  all  these  feelings.  During 
our  first  year  in  New  York,  we  were  living  a  few  miles 
from  the  city,  at  one  of  the  loveliest  situations  in  the  world! 
I  think  I  have  seldom  seen  a  sweeter  spot ;  but  all  its  beau 
ties  could  not  divert  her  thoughts  from  our  own  dear  home, 
and  despite  the  superior  advantages  we  there  enjoyed,  she 
wept  to  enjoy  it  again.  But  enough  of  this ;  if  I  suffer  my 
fancy  to  dwell  longer  upon  these  loved  scenes,  I  shall  scrib 
ble  over  my  whole  sheet,  and,  leaving  out  "what  I  most  wish 
to  say,  fill  it  with  nothing  but  *  Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet 
home !'  as  the  song  goes. 

June,  1837. 

"  Now  for  the  mighty  theme  upon  which  I  scarcely  dare 
to  dwell :  my  visit  to  Plattsburgh  !  Yes,  my  dear  H.,  I  do 
think,  or  rather  I  do  hope,  that  such  a  time  may  come  when 
I  may  spend  at  least  a  week  with  you.  I  dare  not  hope  for 
a  longer  time,  for  I  know  I  shall  be  disappointed.  About 
the  middle  of  this  month  brother  graduates,  and  will  leave 
West  Point  for  home.  He  intends  to  visit  Plattsburgh,  and 
it  will  take  much  to  wean  me  from  my  favourite  plan  of 
accompanying  him.  However,  all  is  uncertain — I  must  not 
think  of  it  too  much — but  if  I  do  come,  it  will  be  with  the 
hope  of  gaining  a  still  greater  pleasure.  We  are  now  de 
lightfully  situated.  Can  you  not  return  with  me,  and  make 
me  a  visit!  What  joy  is  like  the  joy  of  anticipation  1  What 


66  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

pleasure  like  those  we  look  forward  to,  through  a  long  lapse 
of  time,  and  dwell  upon  as  some  bright  land  that  we  shall 
inhabit  when  the  present  shall  have  become  the  past  ?  I 
have  heard  it  observed  that  it  was  foolish  to  anticipate — 
that  it  was  only  increasing  the  pangs  of  disappointment. 
Not  so :  do  we  not,  in  our  most  sanguine  hopes,  acknow 
ledge  to  ourselves  a  fear,  a  doubt,  an  expectation  of  disap 
pointment  1  Shall  we  lose  the  enjoyment  of  the  present, 
because  evil  may  come  in  future  1  No,  no — if  anticipation 
was  not  meant  for  a  solace,  an  alleviation  of  the  sorrows 
of  life,  would  it  have  been  so  strongly  implanted  in  our 
hearts  by  the  great  Director  of  all  our  passions  1  No — it  is 
too  precious !  I  would  give  up  half  the  reality  of  joy  for  the 
sweet  anticipation.  Stop — I  have  gone  too  far — for  indeed 
I  could  not  resign  my  visit  to  you,  though  I  might  hope  and 
anticipate  for  years ! 

"  Just  as  I  had  written  the  above,  father  interrupted  me 
with  an  invitation  to  ride.  We  have  just  returned  from  a 
long,  delightful  drive.  Though  Ballston  cannot  compare 
with  Plattsburgh  for  its  rich  and  varied  scenery,  still  there 
are  romantic  woods  and  shady  paths  which  cannot  fail  to 
delight  the  true  lover  of  nature. 

******** 

"  So  you  do  have  the  blues,  eh  ]  I  had  almost  said  I  was 
glad  of  it;  but  that  would  be  too  cruel — I  will  only  say,  one 
does  not  like  to  be  alone,  or  in  any  thing  singular,  and  I  too, 
once  in  a  while,  receive  a  visit  from  these  provoking  imps 
— are  they  not  1  You  should  not  have  blamed  Scott  only, 
(excuse  me,)  but  yourself,  for  selecting  such  a  book  to  chase 
away  melancholy. 

"  You  ask  me  if  I  remember  those  story-telling-  days  ?  In 
deed  I  do,  and  nothing  affords  me  more  pleasure  than  the 
recollection  of  those  happy  hours!  If  my  memory  could 
only  retain  the  particulars  of  my  last  story,  gladly  would  I 
resume  and  continue  it  when  I  meet  you  again.  I  will  ease 
your  heart  of  its  fear  for  mine — your  scolding  did  not  break 
it.  My  dear  H.,  it  is  not  made  of  such  brittle  materials  as 
to  crack  for  a  trifle.  No,  no !  It  would  be  far  more  prudent 
to  save  it  entire  for  some  greater  occasion,  and  then  make 
the  crash  as  loud  as  possible — don't  you  think  sol  Oh  non 
sensical  nonsense !  Well, 

'  The  greatest  and  the  wisest  men 
Will  fool  a  little  now  and  then.' 

But  I  believe  I  will  not  add  another  word,  lest  my  pen 
should  slide  off  into  some  new  absurdity." 

On  the  1st  of  May,  1837,  the  family  left  New  York  for 
Ballston.  They  had  scarce  reached  there  when  Mrs.  David- 


BIOGRAPHY.  67 

son  had  an  attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism,  which  con 
fined  her  to  her  bed,  and  rendered  her  helpless  as  an  infant. 
It  was  Margaret's  turn  now  to  play  the  nurse,  which  she  did 
with  the  most  tender  assiduity.  The  paroxysms  of  her  mo 
ther's  complaint  were  at  first  really  alarming,  as  may  be  seen 
by  the  following  extract  of  a  letter  from  Margaret  to  Miss 
Sedgwick,  written  a  short  time  afterwards : 

"We  at  first  thought  she  would  never  revive.  It  was  in 
deed  a  dreadful  hour,  my  dear  madam — a  sad  trial  for  poor 
father  and  myself,  to  watch,  as  we  supposed,  the  last  agonies 
of  one  so  beloved  as  my  dear  mother !  But  the  cloud  has 
passed  by,  and  my  heart,  relieved  from  its  burden,  is  filled, 
almost  to  overflowing,  with  gratitude  and  joy.  After  a  few 
hours  of  dreadful  suspense,  reaction  took  place,  and  since 
then  she  has  been  slowly  and  steadily  improving.  In  a  few 
days,  I  hope,  she  will  be  able  to  ride,  and  breathe  some  of 
this  delightful  air,  which  cannot  fail  to  invigorate  and  re 
store  her.  My  own  health  has  improved  astonishingly 
since  my  coming  here.  I  walk,  and  ride,  and  exercise  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  open  air,  and  find  it  of  great  service 
to  me.  Oh  how  much  I  hope  to  see  you  here !  *  *  *  * 
Do,  if  possible,  try  the  Ballston  air  once  more.  It  has  been 
useful  to  you  once,  it  might  be  still  more  so  now.  You  will 
find  warm  hearts  to  welcome  you,  and  we  will  do  all  in  our 
power  to  make  your  visit  pleasant  to  you.  The  country 
does  indeed  look  beautiful !  The  woods  are  teeming  with 
wild  flowers,  and  the  air  is  full  of  melody.  The  soft,  wild 
warbling  of  the  birds  is  far  more  sweet  to  me  than  the 
most  laboured  performances  of  art;  they  may  weary  by 
repetition,  but  what  heart  can  resist  the  influence  of  a 
lovely. day  ushered  in  by  the  morning  song  of  those  sweet 
carollers !  and  even  to  sleep,  as  it  were,  by  their  melodious 
evening  strain.  How  I  wish  you  could  be  here  to  enjoy  it 
with  me." 

The  summer  of  1837  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  her  fleet 
ing  existence.  For  some  time  after  the  family  removed  to 
Ballston  she  was  very  much  confined  to  the  house  by  the 
illness  of  her  mother,  and  the  want  of  a  proper  female  com 
panion  to  accompany  her  abroad.  At  length,  a  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
II.,  estimable  and  intimate  friends,  of  a  highly  intellectual 
character,  came  to  the  village.  Their  society  was  an  invalua 
ble  requisition  to  Margaret.  In  company  with  them  she  was 
enabled  to  enjoy  the  healthful  recreations  of  the  country ;  to 
ramble  in  the  woods;  to  take  exercise  on  horseback,  of  which 
she  was  extremely  fond,  and  to  make  excursions  about  the 


68  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

neighbourhood  ;  while  they  exerted  a  guardian  care  to  prevent 
her,  in  her  enthusiastic  love  for  rural  scenery,  from  exposing 
herself  to  any  thing  detrimental  to  her  health  and  strength. 
She  gave  herself  up,  for  a  time,  to  these  exhilarating  exercises, 
abstaining  from  her  usual  propensity  to  overtask  her  intellect, 
for  she  had  imbibed  the  idea  that  active  habits,  cheerful  recrea 
tions,  and  a  holiday  frame  of  mind  would  effectually  re-esta 
blish  her  health.  As  usual,  in  her  excited  moods,  she  occa 
sionally  carried  these  really  healthful  practices  to  excess,  and 
would  often,  says  her  mother,  engage,  with  a  palpitating  heart, 
and  a  pulse  beating  at  the  rate  of  one  hundred  and  thirty  in 
a  minute,  in  all  the  exercises  usually  prescribed  to  preserve 
health  in  those  who  are  in  full  possession  of  the  blessing.  She 
was  admonished  of  her  danger  by  several  attacks  upon  her 
lungs  during  the  summer,  but  as  they  were  of  short  duration, 
she  still  flattered  herself  that  she  was  getting  well.  There 
seemed  to  be  almost  an  infatuation  in  her  case.  The  exhilara 
tion  of  her  spirits  was  at  times  so  great  as  almost  to  overpower 
her.  Often  would  she  stand  by  the  window  admiring  a  glo 
rious  sunset,  until  she  would  be  raised  into  a  kind  of  ecstasy; 
her  eye  would  kindle  ;  a  crimson  glow  would  mount  into  her 
cheek,  and  she  would  indulge  in  some  of  her  reveries  about 
the  glories  of  heaven,  and  the  spirits  of  her  deceased  sisters, 
partly  uttering  her  fancies  aloud,  until  turning  and  catching 
her  mother's  eye  fixed  painfully  upon  her,  she  would  throw 
her  arms  round  her  neck,  kiss  away  the  tears,  and  sink 
exhausted  on  her  bosom.  The  excitement  over,  she  would 
resume  her  calmness,  and  converse  on  general  topics.  Among 
her  writings  are  fragments  hastily  scrawled  down  at  this  time, 
showing  the  vague  aspirations  of  her  spirit,  and  her  vain  at 
tempts  to  grasp  those  shadowy  images  that  sometimes  flit  across 
the  poetic  mind. 

Oh  for  a  something  more  than  this, 

To  fill  the  void  within  my  breast ; 
A  sweet  reality  of  bliss, 

A  something  bright,  but  unexpress'd  ! 

My  spirit  longs  for  something  higher 
Than  life's  dull  stream  can  e'er  supply  ; 

Something  to  feed  this  inward  fire, 

This  spark,  which  never  more  can  die. 

I'd  hold  companionship  with  all 


With 
A 


Of  pure,  of  noble,  or  divine  ; 
ith  glowing  heart  adoring  fall, 
And  kneel  at  nature's  sylvan  shrine. 


BIOGRAPHY.  69 

My  soul  is  like  a  broken  lyre, 

Whose  loudest,  sweetest  chord  is  gone; 
A  note,  half  trembling  on  the  wire — 

A  heart  that  wants  an  echoing  tone. 

When  shall  I  find  this  shadowy  bliss, 

This  shapeless  phantom  of  the  mind  ? 
This  something  words  can  ne'er  express, 

So  vague,  so  faint,  so  undefined  ? 

Language  !  thou  never  canst  portray 

The  fancies  floating  o'er  my  soul ! 
Thou  ne'er  canst  chase  the  clouds  away 

Which  o'er  my  changing  visjpns  roll ! 

And  again — 

Oh  I  have  gazed  on  forms  of  light, 

Till  life  seem'd  ebbing  in  a  tear — 
Till  in  that  fleeting  space  of  sight 

Were  merged  the  feelings  of  a  year. 

And  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  song, 
Till  my  full  heart  gush'd  wild  and  free, 

And  my  rapt  soul  would  float  along 
As  if  on  waves  of  melody. 

But  while  I  glow'd  at  beauty's  glance, 

I  long'd  to  feel  a  deeper  thrill : 
And  while  I  heard  that  dying  strain, 

I  sigh'd  for  something  sweeter  still. 

I  have  been  happy,  and  my  soul 

Free  from  each  sorrow,  care,  regret ; 
Yet  even  in  these  hours  of  bliss 

I  long'd  to  find  them  happier  yet. 

Oft  o'er  the  darkness  of  my  mind 

Some  meteor  thought  has  glanced  at  will; 

'T  was  bright — but  ever  have  I  sigh'd 
To  find  a  fancy  brighter  still. 

Why  are  these  restless,  vain  desires, 
Which  always  grasp  at  something  more 

To  feed  the  spirit's  hidden  fires, 

Which  burn  unseen — unnoticed  soar  ? 

Well  might  the  heathen  sage  have  known 

That  earth  must  fail  the  soul  to  bind ; 
That  life,  and  life's  tame  joys,  alone, 

Could  never  chain  the  ethereal  mind. 

The  above,  as  we  have  before  observed,  are  mere  frag- 
ments,  unfinished  and  uncorrected,  and  some  of  the  verses 
have  a  vagueness  incident  to  the  mood  of  mind  in  which  they 
were  conceived,  and  the  haste  with  which  they  were  penned  , 
but  in  these  lofty,  indefinite  aspirations  of  a  young,  half- 
schooled,  and  inexperienced  mind,  we  see  the  early  and  im- 
6 


70  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

patient  flutterings  of  a   poetical   genius,  which,   if  spared, 
might  have  soared  to  the  highest  regions. 

In  a  letter  written  to  Miss  Sedgwick  during  the  autumn, 
she  speaks  of  her  health  as  having  rapidly  improved.  "  I 
am  no  longer  afflicted  by  the  cough,  and  mother  feels  it  un 
necessary  now  to  speak  to  me  as  being  ill ;  though  my  health 
is,  and  probably  always  will  be,  very  delicate." — "  And  she 
really  did  appear  better,"  observes  her  mother,  "  and  even  I, 
who  had  ever  been  nervously  alive  to  every  symptom  of  her 
disease,  was  deluded  by  those  favourable  appearances,  and 
began  to  entertain  a  hope  that  she  might  yet  recover,  when 
another  sudden  attack  of  bleeding  at  the  lungs  convinced  us 
of  the  fallacy  of  our  hopes,  and  warned  us  to  take  every 
measure  to  ward  off  the  severity  of  the  climate  in  the  coming 
winter.  A  consultation  was  held  between  her  father  and  our 
favourite  physician,  and  the  result  was  that  she  was  to  keep 
within  doors.  This  was  indeed  sad,  but,  after  an  evident 
struggle  with  her  own  mind,  she  submitted,  with  her  accus 
tomed  good  sense,  to  the  decree.  All  that  affection  could 
suggest,  was  done,  to  prevent  the  effects  of  this  seclusion  on 
her  spirits."  A  cheerful  room  was  allotted  to  her,  command 
ing  an  agreeable  prospect,  and  communicating,  by  folding 
doors,  to  a  commodious  parlour  ;  the  temperature  of  the  whole 
apartment  was  regulated  by  a  thermometer.  Hither  her 
books,  writing-table,  drawing  implements,  and  fancy  work 
were  transported.  When  once  established  in  these  winter 
quarters,  she  became  contented  and  cheerful.  "  She  read 
and  wrote,"  says  her  mother,  "  and  amused  herself  with 
drawing  and  needle  work.  After  spending  as  much  time  as 
I  dare  permit  in  the  more  serious  studies  in  which  she  was 
engaged,  she  would  unbend  her  mind  with  one  of  Scott's  de 
lightful  novels,  or  play  with  her  kitten ;  and  at  evenirfg  we 
were  usually  joined  by  our  interesting  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H. 
It  is  now  a  melancholy  satisfaction  to  me  to  believe  that  she 
could  not,  in  her  state  of  health,  be  happier,  or  more  plea 
santly  situated.  She  was  always  charmed  with  the  conver 
sation  of  Mr.  H.,  and  followed  him  through  all  the  mazes  of 
philosophy  with  the  greatest  delight.  She  read  Cousin  with 
a  high  zest,  and  produced  an  abstract  from  it  which  gave  a 
convincing  proof  that  she  understood  the  principles  there  laid 
down  ;  after  which  she  gave  a  complete  analysis  of  the  In 
troduction  to  the  History  of  Philosophy,  by  the  same  author. 
Her  mind  must  have  been  deeply  engrossed  by  these  studies, 


BIOGRAPHY.  71 

.XkV^'         <V> 

yet  it  was  not  visible  from  her  manner.     During v  this  shorf 

winter  she  accomplished  what  to  many  would  have  b^u.  the 
labour  of  years,  yet  there  was  no  haste,  no  flurry;  she  pur 
sued  quietly  her  round  of  occupations,  always  cheerful.  The 
hours  flew  swiftly  by ;  not  a  moment  lagged.  I  think  she 
never  spent  a  more  happy  winter  than  this,  with  all  its  varied 
employments." 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  to  one  of  her  young 
friends,  gives  an  idea  of  her  course  of  reading  during  this 
winter ;  and  how,  in  her  precocious  mind,  the  playfulness  of 
the  child  mingled  with  the  thoughtfulness  of  the  woman. 

"  You  ask  me  what  I  am  reading.  Alas !  book-worm  as 
I  am,  it  makes  me  draw  a  long  breath  to  contemplate  the 
books  I  have  laid  out  for  perusal.  In  the  first  place,  I  am 
reading  Condillac's  Ancient  History,  in  French,  twenty-four 
volumes ;  Gibboji's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire 
in  four  large  volumes.  I  have  not  finished  Josephus.  In 
my  moments  of  recreation  I  am  poring  over  Scott's  bewitch 
ing  novels.  I  wish  we  could  give  them  some  other  name 
instead  of  novels,  for  they  certainly  should  not  bear  the  same 
title  with  the  thousand  and  one  productions  of  that  class 
daily  swarming  from  the  press.  Do  you  think  they  ought  ? 
So  pure,  so  pathetic,  so  historical,  and,  above  all,  so  true  to 
human  nature.  How  beautifully  he  mingles  the  sad  with 
the  grotesque,  in  such  a  manner  that  the  opposite  feelings 
they  excite  harmonize  perfectly  with  each  other.  His  works 
can  be  read  over  and  over  again,  and  every  time  with  a 
growing  sense  of  their  beauties.  Do  you  read  French  ?  If 
so,  I  wish  we  could  read  the  same  works  together.  It  would 
be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  at  least,  and  our  mutual  remarks 
might  benefit  each  other.  Supposing  you  will  be  pleased  to 
hear  of  my  amusements,  however  trifling1,  I  will  venture  to 
name  one,  at  the  risk  of  lowering  any  great  opinion  you 
may  have  formed  of  my  wisdom  !  A  pet  kitten ! ! !  Yes,  my 
dear  Henrietta,  a  sweet  little  creature,  with  a  graceful  shape, 
playful  temper,  white  breast,  and  dear  little  innocent  eyes, 
which  completely  belie  the  reputed  disposition  of  a  cat.  He 
is  neither  deceitful,  ferocious,  nor  ungrateful,  but  is  certainly 
the  most  rational  being  for  an  irrational  one,  I  ever  saw. 
He  is  now  snugly  lying  in  my  lap,  watching  every  move 
ment  of  my  pen  with  a  quiet  purr  of  contentment.  Have 
you  such  a  pet?  I  wish  you  had,  that  we  both  might  play 
with  them  at  the  same  time,  sunset,  for  instance,  and  while 
so  far  distant,  feel  that  we  were  enjoying  ourselves  in  the 
selfsame  way.  You  ask  what  I  think  of  animal  magnetism? 
My  dear  Hetty,  I  have  not  troubled  my  head  about  it.  I 
hear  of  it  from  every  quarter,  and  mentioned  so  often  with 


72  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

contempt,  that  I  have  thought  of  it  only  as  an  absurdity 
If  I  understand  it  rightly,  the  leading  principle  is  the  influ 
ence  of  one  mind  upon  another;  there  is  undoubtedly  such 
an  influence,  to  a  reasonable  degree,  but  as  to  throwing  one 
into  a  magnetic  sleep — presenting  visions  before  their  eyes 
of  scenes  passing  afar  off,  it  seems  almost  too  ridiculous ! 
Still  it  may  be  all  true !  A  hundred  years  since,  what  would 
have  been  our  feelings  to  see  what  is  now  here  so  common, 
a  steam  engine,  breathing  fire  and  smoke,  gliding  along  with 
the  rapidity  of  thought,  and  carrying  at  its  black  keels  a 
train  which  a  hundred  men  would  fail  to  move.  We  know 
not  but  this  apparent  absurdity,  this  magnetism  may  be  a 
great  and  mysterious  secret,  which  the  course  of  time  will 
reveal  and  adapt  to  important  purposes.  ***** 
What  are  you  studying]  Do  you  play?  Do  you  draw? 
Please  tell  me  every  thing.  I  wish  I  could  form  some  pic 
ture  of  you  to  my  mind's  eye.  It  is  so  tormenting  to  cor 
respond  with  a  dear  friend,  and  have  no  likeness  of  them  in 
our  fancy.  I  remember  every  thing  as  it  used  to  be,  but 
time  makes  great  changes!  Now  here  comes  my  saucy 
kitten,  and  springs  upon  the  table  before  me  as  if  he  had  a 
perfect  right  there.  *  What  do  you  mean,  little  puss?  Come, 
sit  for  your  portrait !'  I  hope,  dear  H.,  you  will  fully  appre 
ciate  this  painting,  which  I  consider  as  my  chef-d'oeuvre, 
and  preserve  it  as  a  faithful  likeness  of  my  inimitable  cat. 
But  do  forgive  me  so  much  nonsense !  But  I  feel  that  to 
you  I  can  rattle  off  any  thing  that  comes  uppermost.  It  is 
near  night,  and  the  sun  is  setting  so  beautifully  after  the 
long  storm  that  I  could  not  sit  here  much  longer,  even  if  I 
had  a  whole  page  to  fill.  How  splendid  the  moon  must 
look  on  the  bright  waters  of  the  Champlain  this  night! 
Good  bye,  good  bye — love  to  all  from  all,  and  believe  me, 
now  as  ever, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

MARGARET." 

The  following  passages  from  her  mother's  memorandums,, 
touch  upon  matters  of  more  solemn  interest,  which  occasion 
ally  occupied  her  young  mind  : 

"  During  the  whole  of  the  preceding  summer  her  mind 
had  dwelt  much  upon  the  subject  of  religion.  Much  of  her 
time  was  devoted  to  serious  reflection,  self-examination,  and 
prayer.  But  she  evidently  shunned  all  conversation  upon 
the  subject.  It  was  a  theme  she  had  always  conversed 
upon  with  pleasure  until  now.  This  not  only  surprised  but 
pained  me.  I  was  a  silent  but  close  and  anxious  observer 
of  the  operations  of  her  mind,  and  saw  that,  with  all  hei 
apparent  cheerfulness,  she  was  ill  at  ease;  perfect  silence 


BIOGRAPHY.  73 

was  however  maintained  on  both  sides  until  the  winter 
commenced,  and  brought  us  more  closely  together.  Then 
her  young  heart  again  reposed  itself,  in  confiding  love,  upon 
the  bosom  that  heretofore  had  shared  its  every  thought,  and 
the  subject  became  one  of  daily  discussion.  I  found  her 
mind  perplexed,  and  her  ideas  confused  by  points  of  doctrine 
which  she  could  neither  understand  nor  reconcile  with  her 
views  of  the  justice  and  benevolence  of  God,  as  exhibited 
in  the  Scriptures.  Her  views  of  the  divine  character  and 
attributes  had  ever  been  of  that  elevated  cast,  which,  while 
they  raised  her  mind  above  all  grosser  things,  sublimated 
and  purified  her  feelings  and  desires,  and  prepared  her  for 
that  bright  and  holy  communion  without  which  she  could 
enjoy  nothing.  Her  faith  was  of  that  character  'which 
casteth  out  fear.'  It  was  sweet  and  soothing  to  depend 
upon  Jesus  for  salvation.  It  was  delightful  to  behold,  in  the 
all-imposing  majesty  of  God,  a  kind  and  tender  father,  who 
pitied  her  infirmities,  and  on  whose  justice  and  benevolence 
she  could  rest  for  time  and  eternity.  She  had,  during  the 
summer,  heard  much  disputation  on  doctrinal  points,  which 
she  had  silently  and  carefully  examined,  and  had  been 
shocked  at  the  position  which  many  professing  Christians 
had  taken ;  she  saw  much  inconsistency,  much  bitterness 
of  spirit,  on  points  which  she  had  been  taught  to  consider 
not  essential  to  salvation;  she  saw  that  the  spirit  of  perse 
cution  and  uncharitableness  which  pervaded  many  classes 
of  Christians,  had  almost  totally  destroyed  that  bond  of 
brotherhood  which  ought  firmly  to  unite  the  followers  of  the 
humble  Saviour ;  and  she  could  not  reconcile  these  feelings 
with  her  ideas  of  the  Christian  character.  Her  meekness 
and  humility  led  her  sometimes  to  doubt  her  own  state.  She 
felt  that  her  religious  duties  were  but  too  feebly  performed, 
and  that  without  divine  assistance  all  her  resolutions  to  be 
more  faithful  were  vain.  She  often  said, « Mamma,  I  am  far 
from  right.  I  resolve  and  re-resolve,  and  yet  remain  the 
same.'  I  had  shunned  every  thing  that  savoured  of  contro 
versy,  knowing  her  enthusiasm  and  extreme  sensibility  on 
the  subject  of  religion ;  I  dreaded  the  excitement  it  might 
create.  But  I  now  more  fully  explained,  as  well  as  I  was 
able,  the  simple  and  divine  truths  of  the  Gospel,  and  held 
up  to  her  view  the  beauty  and  benevolence  of  the  Father's 
character,  and  the  unbounded  love  which  could  have  devised 
the  atoning  sacrifice ;  and  advised  her  at  present  to  avoid 
controversial  writings,  and  make  a  more  thorough  examina 
tion  of  the  Scriptures,  that  she  might  found  her  principles 
upon  the  evidences  to  be  deduced  from  that  groundwork 
of  our  faith,  unbiassed  by  the  opinions  and  prejudices  of 
any  man.  I  represented  to  her,  that,  young  as  she  was,  while 
in  feeble  health,  researches  into  those  knotty  and  disputed 
6* 


74  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

subjects  would  only  confuse  her  mind ;  that  there  was 
enough  of  plain  practical  religion  to  be  gathered  from  the 
Bible";  and  urged  the  importance  of  frequent  and  earnest 
prayer,  which",  with  God's  blessing,  would  compose  the 
agitation  of  her  mind,  which  I  considered  as  essential  to 
her  inward  peace. 

On  one  occasion,  while  perusing  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott 
with  great  interest,  her  mother  ventured  to  sound  her  feelings 
dpon  the  subject  of  literary  fame,  and  asked  her  whether  she 
had  no  ambition  to  have  her  name  go  down  to  posterity.  She 
took  her  mother's  hand  with  enthusiasm,  kissed  her  cheek, 
and,  retiring  to  the  other  room,  in  less  than  an  hour  returned 
with  the  following  lines : 

TO  DIE  AND  BE  FORGOTTEN. 

A  few  short  years  will  roll  along, 

With  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
Then  shall  I  pass — a  broken  tone ! 

An  echo  of  a  strain ! 

Then  shall  I  fade  away  from  life, 

Like  cloud-tints  from  the  sky, 
When  the  breeze  sweeps  their  surface  o'er, 

And  they  are  lost  for  aye. 

The  world  will  laugh,  and  weep,  and  sing, 

As  gaily  as  before, 
But  cold  and  silent  I  shall  be — 

As  I  have  been  no  more. 

The  haunts  I  loved,  the  flowers  I  nursed 

Will  bloom  as  sweetly  still, 
But  other  hearts  and  other  hands 

My  vacant  place  shall  fill. 

And  even  mighty  love  must  fail 

To  bind  my  memory  here — 
Like  fragrance  round  the  faded  rose, 

'Twill  perish  with  the  year. 

The  soul  may  look  with  fervent  hope 

To  worlds  of  future  bliss  ; 
But  oh  how  saddening  to  the  heart 

To  be  forgot  in  this ! 

How  many  a  noble  mind  hath  shrunk 

From  death  without  a  name  : 
Hath  look'd  beyond  his  shadowy  realm, 

And  lived  and  died  for  fame. 

Could  we  not  view  the  darksome  grave 

With  calmer,  steadier  eye, 
If  conscious  that  a  world's  regrot 

Would  seek  us  where  we  lie  ? 


BIOGRAPHY.  75 


Faith  points,  with  mild  confiding  glance, 

To  realms  of  bliss  above, 
Where  peace,  and  joy,  and  justice  reign, 

And  never-dying  love  ! 

But  still  our  earthly  feelings  cling 
Around  this  bounded  spot ; — 

There  is  a  something  burns  within 
Which  will  not  be  forgot. 

It  cares  not  for  a  gorgeous  hearse, 
For  waving  torch  and  plume  ; 

For  pealing  hymn,  funereal  verse, 
Or  richly  sculptured  tomb ; 

But  it  would  live,  undimm'd  and  fresh, 
When  flickering  life  departs; 

Would  find  a  pure  and  honour'd  grave, 
Embalm' d  in  kindred  hearts. 

Who  would  not  brave  a  life  of  tears 
To  win  an  honour'd  name  ? 

One  sweet  and  heart-awakening  tone 
From  the  silver  trump  of  fame  ? 

To  be,  when  countless  years  have  past, 
The  good  man's  glowing  theme  ? 

To  be — but  I — what  right  have  I 
To  this  bewildering  dream  ? 

Oh,  it  is  vain,  and  worse  than  vain, 
To  dwell  on  thoughts  like  these  ; 

I,  a  frail  child,  whose  feeble  frame 
Already  knows  disease ! 

Who,  ere  another  spring  may  dawn, 

Another  summer  bloom, 
May,  like  the  flowers  of  autumn,  lie 

A  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

Away,  away,  presumptuous  thought, 
I  will  not  dwell  on  thee ! 

For  what,  alas !  am  I  to  fame, 
And  what  is  fame  to  me  ? 

Let  all  these  wild  and  longing  thoughts 
With  the  dying  year  expire, 

And  I  will  nurse  within  my  breast 
A  purer,  holier  fire  ! 

Yes,  I  will  seek  my  mind  to  win 
From  all  these  dreams  of  strife, 

And  toil  to  write  my  name  within 
The  glorious  book  of  life. 

Then  shall  old  Time,  who,  rolling  on, 
Impels  me  towards  the  tomb, 

Prepare  for  me  a  glorious  crown, 

Through  endless  years  to  bloom. 
December,  1837. 


76  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

The  confinement  to  the  house,  in  a  graduated  temperature, 
the  round  of  cheerful  occupations,  and  the  unremitting  care 
taken  of  her,  produced  a  visible  melioration  of  her  symptoms. 
Her  cough  gradually  subsided,  the  morbid  irritability  of  her 
system,  producing  often  an  unnatural  flow  of  spirits,  was 
quieted  ;  as  usual,  she  looked  forward  to  spring  as  the  genial 
and  delightful  season  that  was  to  restore  her  to  perfect  health 
and  freedom. 

Christmas  was  approaching,  which  had  ever  been  a  time 
of  social  enjoyment  in  the  family ;  as  it  drew  near,  however, 
the  remembrance  of  those  lost  from  the  fireside  circle  was 
painfully  felt  by  Mrs.  Davidson.  Margaret  saw  the  gloom  on 
her  mother's  brow,  and  kissing  her,  exclaimed,  "  Dear  mo 
ther,  do  not  let  us  waste  our  present  happiness  in  useless  re 
pining.  You  see  I  am  well,  and  you  are  more  comfortable, 
and  dear  father  is  in  good  health  and  spirits.  Let  us  enjoy 
the  present  hour,  and  banish  vain  regrets !"  Having  given 
this  wholesome  advice,  she  tripped  off  with  a  light  step  to  pre 
pare  Christmas  presents  for  the  servants,  which  were  to  be 
distributed  by  St.  Nicholas  or  Santa  Glaus,  in  the  old  tradi 
tional  way.  Every  animated  being,  rational  or  irrational, 
must  share  her  liberality  on  that  day  of  festivity  and  joy. 
Her  Jenny,  a  little  bay  pony  on  which  she  had  taken  many 
healthful  and  delightful  rides,  must  have  a  gayer  blanket,  and 
an  extra  allowance  of  oats.  "  On  Christmas  morning,"  says 
her  mother,  "  she  woke  with  the  first  sound  of  the  old  house- 
clock  striking  the  hour  of  five,  and  twining  her  arms  around 
my  neck,  (for  during  this  winter  she  shared  my  bed,)  and, 
kissing  me  again  and  again,  exclaimed — 

1  Wake,  mother,  wake  to  youthful  glee, 
The  golden  sun  is  dawning !' 

then  slipping  a  piece  of  paper  into  my  hand,  she  sprang  out 
of  bed,  and  danced  about  the  carpet,  her  kitten  in  her  arms, 
with  all  the  sportive  glee  of  childhood.  When  I  gazed  upon 
her  young  face,  so  bright,  so  animated,  and  beautiful,  beaming 
with  innocence  and  love,  and  thought  that  perhaps  this  was 
,the  .last  anniversary  of  her  Saviour's  birth  she  might  spend 
on  earth,  I  could  not  suppress  my  emotions :  I  caught  her  to 
my  bosom  in  an  agony  of  tenderness,  while  she,  all  uncon 
scious  of  the  nature  of  my  feelings,  returned  my  caresses 
with  playful  fondness."  The  following  verses  were  contained 
in  the  above-mentioned  paper : 


BIOGRAPHY.  77 

TO  MY  MOTHER  AT  CHRISTMAS. 

Wake,  mother,  wake  to  youthful  glee, 

The  golden  sun  is  dawning ! 
Wake,  mother,  wake,  and  hail  with  me 

This  happy  Christmas  morning ! 

Each  eye  is  bright  with  pleasure's  glow, 

Each  lip  is  laughing  merrily ; 
A  smile  hath  pass'd  o'er  winter's  brow, 

And  the  very  snow  looks  cheerily. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  waken'd  day, 

To  the  sleigh-bells  gaily  ringing, 
While  a  thousand,  thousand  happy  hearts 

Their  Christmas  lays  are  singing. 

'Tis  a  joyous  hour  of  mirth  and  love, 

And  my  heart  is  overflowing ! 
Come,  let  us  raise  our  thoughts  above, 

While  pure,  and  fresh,  and  glowing. 

'T  is  the  happiest  day  of  the  rolling  year, 

But  it  comes  in  a  robe  of  mourning 
Nor  light,  nor  life,  nor  bloom  is  here 

Its  icy  shroud  adorning. 

It  comes  when  all  around  is  dark, 

'Tis  meet  it  so  should  be, 
For  its  joy  is  the  joy  of  the  happy  heart, 

The  spirit's  jubilee. 

It  does  not  need  the  bloom  of  spring, 

Or  summer's  light  and  gladness, 
For  love  has  spread  her  beaming  wing 

O'er  winter's  brow  of  sadness. 

1  Twas  thus  he  came,  beneath  a  cloud 

His  spirit's  light  concealing, 
No  crown  of  earth,  no  kingly  robe 

His  heavenly  power  revealing. 

His  soul  was  pure,  his  mission  love, 

His  aim  a  world's  redeeming ; 
To  raise  the  darken'd  soul  above 

Its  wild  and  sinful  dreaming. 

With  all  his  Father's  power  and  love 

The  cords  of  guilt  to  sever ; 
To  ope  a  sacred  fount  of  light, 

Which  flows,  shall  flow  for  ever. 

Then  we  shall  hail  the  glorious  day, 

The  spirit's  new  creation, 
And  pour  our  grateful  feelings  forth, 

A  pure  and  warm  libation. 

Wake,  mother,  wake  to  chasten' d  joy, 

The  golden  sun  is  dawning  1 
Wake,  mother,  wake,  and  hail  with  me 

This  happy  Christmas  morning. 


78  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  The  last  day  of  the  year  1837  arrived.  *  Mamma,'  said 
she,  *  will  you  sit  up  with  me  to-night  until  after  twelve  V  I 
looked  inquiringly.  She  replied,  « I  wish  to  bid  farewell  to 
the  present,  and  to  welcome  the  coming  year.'  After  the 
family  retired,  and  we  had  seated  ourselves  by  a  cheerful  fire 
to  spend  the  hours  which  would  intervene  until  the  year  1838 
should  dawn  upon  us,  she  was  serious,  but  not  sad,  and  as  if 
she  had  nothing  more  than  usual  upon  her  mind,  took  some  light 
sewing  in  her  hand,  and  so  interested  me  by  her  conversation, 
that  I  scarcely  noticed  the  flight  of  time.  At  half  past  eleven 
she  handed  me  a  book,  pointing  to  some  interesting  article  to 
amuse  me,  then  took  her  seat  at  the  writing-table,  and  com 
posed  the  piece  on  the  departure  of  the  old  year  1837,  and 
the  commencement  of  the  new  one  1838.  When  she  had 
finished  the  Farewell,  except  the  last  verse,  it  wanted -a  few 
minutes  of  twelve.  She  rested  her  arms  in  silence  upon  the 
table,  apparently  absorbed  in  meditation.  The  clock  struck — 
a  sort  of  deep  thought  passed  over  her  expressive  face — she 
remained  solemn  and  silent  until  the  last  tone  had  ceased  to 
vibrate,  when  she  again  resumed  her  pen  and  wrote,  *  The 
bell !  it  hath  ceased.'  When  the  clock  struck,  I  arose  from 
my  seat  and  stood  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair,  with  a 
mind  deeply  solemnized  by  a  scene  so  new  and  interesting. 
The  words  flowed  rapidly  from  her  pen,  without  haste  or  con 
fusion,  and  at  one  o'clock  we  were  quietly  in  bed." 

We  again  subjoin  the  poem  alluded  to,  trusting  that  these 
effusions,  which  are  so  intimately  connected  with  her  personal 
history,  will  be  read  with  greater  interest,  when  given  in  con 
junction  with  the  scenes  and  circumstances  which  prompted 
them. 

ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  YEAR  1837,  AND  THE 
COMMENCEMENT  OF  1838. 

Hark  to  the  house-clock's  measured  chime, 

As  it  cries  to  the  startled  ear, 
"  A  dirge  for  the  soul  of  departing  time, 

A  requiem  for  the  year." 

Thou  art  passing  away  to  the  mighty  past, 

Where  thy  countless  brethren  sleep, 
*  Till  the  great  Archangel's  trumpet-blast, 

Shall  waken  land  and  deep. 

Oh  the  lovely  and  beautiful  things  that  lie 

On  thy  cold  and  motionless  breast ! 
Oh  the  tears,  the  rejoicings,  the  smiles,  the  sighs, 

Departing  with  thee  to  their  rest. 


BIOGRAPHY.  79 

Thou  wert  usher' d  to  life  amid  darkness  and  gloom, 

But  the  cold  icy  cloud  pass'd  away, 
And  spring,  in  her  verdure,  and  freshness,  and  bloom, 

Touch'd  with  glory  thy  mantle  of  gray. 

The  flow' rets  burst  forth  in  their  beauty — the  trees 

In  their  exquisite  robes  were  array' d, 
But  thou  glidedst  along,  and  the  flower  and  the  leaf, 

At  the  sound  of  thy  footsteps,  decay'd. 

And  fairer  young  blossoms  were  blooming  alone, 

And  they  died  at  the  glance  of  thine  eye, 
But  a  life  was  within  which  should  rise  o'er  thine  own 

And  a  spirit  thou  couldst  not  destroy. 

Thou  hast  folded  thy  pinions,  thy  race  is  complete, 

And  fulfill'd  the  Creator's  behest, 
Then,  adieu  to  thee,  year  of  our  sorrows  and  joys, 

And  peaceful  and  long  be  thy  rest. 

Farewell !  for  thy  truth- written  record  is  full, 

And  the  page  weeps,  for  sorrow  and  crime  ; 
Farewell !  for  the  leaf  hath  shut  down  on  the  past, 

And  conceal' d  the  dark  annals  of  time. 


The  bell !  it  hath  ceased  with  its  iron  tongue 
To  ring  on  the  startled  ear, 

The  dirge  o'er  the  grave  of  the  lost  one  is  rung- 
All  hail  to  the  new-born  year ! 

All  hail  to  the  new-born  year ! 

To  the  child  of  hope  and  fear  ! 

He  comes  on  his  car  of  state, 

And  weaves  our  web  of  fate, 
And  he  opens  his  robe  to  receive  us  all, 
And  we  live  or  die,  and  we  rise  or  fall, 

In  the  arms  of  the  new-born  year ! 

Hope !  spread  thy  soaring  wings  ! 

Look  forth  on  the  boundless  sea, 
And  trace  thy  bright  and  beautiful  things 

On  the  veil  of  the  great  To  Be. 

B'uild  palaces  broad  as  the  sky, 

And  store  them  with  treasures  of  light, 

Let  exquisite  visions  bewilder  the  eye, 
And  illumine  the  darkness  of  night. 

We  are  gliding  fast  from  the  buried  year, 

And  the  present  is  no  more, 
But  hope,  we  will  borrow  thy  sparkling  gear, 

And  shroud  the  future  o'er. 

Our  tears  and  sighs  shall  sleep 
In  the  grave  of  the  silent  past ; 

We  will  raise  up  flowers — nor  weep 
That  the  air  hues  may  not  last. 


80  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

We  will  dream  our  dreams  of  joy, 

Ah,  fear !  why  darken  the  scene  ? 
Why  sprinkle  that  ominous  tear, 

My  beautiful  visions  between? 

Hath  not  sorrow  swift  wings  of  her  own, 

That  thou  must  assist  in  her  flight  ? 
Is  not  daylight  too  rapidly  gone, 

That  thou  must  urge  onward  the  night  ? 

Ah !  leave  me  to  fancy,  to  hope, 

For  grief  will  too  quickly  be  here  ; 
Ah !  leave  me  to  shadow  forth  figures  of  light, 

In  the  mystical  robe  of  the  year. 

'Tis  true,  they  may  never  assume 

The  substance  of  pleasure, — the  real, — 

But  believe  me,  our  purest  of  joy 
Consists  in  the  vague— the  ideal. 

Then  away  to  the  darksome  cave, 

With  thy  sisters,  the  sigh  and  the  tear, 

We  will  drink,  in  the  crystal  wave, 
To  the  health  of  the  new-born  year. 

"  She  had  been  for  some  time  thinking  of  a  subject  for  a 
poem,  and  the  next  day,  which  was  the  first  of  January,  came 
to  me  in  great  perplexity  and  asked  my  advice.  I  had  long 
desired  that  she  would  direct  her  attention  to  the  beautiful  and 
sublime  narratives  of  the  Old  Testament,  and  now  proposed 
that  she  should  take  the  Bible  and  examine  it  with  that  view. 
After  an  hour  or  two  spent  in  research,  she  remarked  that 
there  were  many,  very  many  subjects  of  deep  and  thrilling 
interest ;  but  if  she  now  should  make  a  failure,  her  discou 
ragement  would  be  such  as  to  prevent  her  from  ever  making 
another  attempt.  '  I  am  now,'  she  said,  *  trying  my  wings ;  I 
will  take  a  lighter  subject  at  first :  if  I  succeed,  I  will  then 
write  a  more  perfect  poem,  founded  upon  Sacred  History.' " 

She  accordingly  took  as  a  theme  a  prose  tale,  in  a  current 
work  of  the  day,  and  wrote  several  pages  with  a  flowing  pen, 
but  soon  threw  them  by  dissatisfied.  It  was  irksome  to 
employ  the  thoughts  and  fancies  of  another,  and  to  have  to 
adapt  her  own  to  the  plan  of  the  author.  She  wanted  some 
thing  original.  "  After  some  farther  effort,"  says  Mrs.  Da 
vidson,  "  she  came  to  me  out  of  spirits  and  in  tears.  '  Mother,' 
*id  she,  c  I  must  give  it  up  after  all.'  I  asked  the  reason,  and 
then  remarked  that  as  she  had  already  so  many  labours  upon 
her  hands,  and  was  still  feeble,  it  might  be  the  wisest  course. 
*  Oh  mother,'  said  she,  '  that  is  not  the  reason ;  my  head  and 
my  heart  are  full :  poetic  images  are  crowding  upon  my  brain, 


BIOGRAPHY.  81 

but  every  subject  has  been  monopolise'd :  "there  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun." '  I  said,  *  My  daughter,  that  others 
have  written  upon  a  subject  is  not  an  objection.  The  most 
eminent  writers  do  not  always  choose  what  is  new.'  •  Mo 
ther,  dear  mother,  what  can  I  say  upon  a  theme  which  has 
been  touched  by  the  greatest  men  of  this  or  some  other  age ? 
I,  a  mere  child ;  it  is  absurd  in  me  to  think  of  it.'  She 
dropped  beside  me  on  the  sofa,  laid  her  head  upon  my  bosom, 
and  sobbed  violently.  I  wiped  the  tears  from  her  face,  while 
my  own  were  fast  flowing,  and  strove  to  soothe  the  tumult  of 
her  mind.  *  *  *  When  we  were  both  more  calm,  I  said, 
*  Margaret,  I  had  hoped  that  during  this  winter  you  would  not 
have  commenced  or  applied  yourself  to  any  important  work ; 
but  if  you  feel  in  that  way,  I  will  not  urge  you  to  resign  an 
occupation  which  gives  you  such  exquisite  enjoyment.' " 

Mrs.  Davidson  then  went  on  to  show  to  her  that,  notwith 
standing  the  number  of  poets  that  had  written,  the  themes  and 
materials  for  poetry  are  inexhaustible.  By  degrees  Margaret 
became  composed,  took  up  a  book  and  read.  The  words  of 
her  mother  dwelt  in  her  mind.  In  a  few  days  she  brought 
her  mother  the  introduction  to  a  projected  poem  to  be  called 
Lenore.  Mrs.  Davidson  was  touched  at  finding  the  remarks! 
she  had  made  for  the  purpose  of  soothing  the  agitation  of  her 
daughter  had  served  to  kindle  her  imagination,  and  were 
poured  forth  with  eloquence  in  those  verses.  The  excitement 
continued,  and  the  poem  of  Lenore  was  completed,  corrected* 
and  copied  into  her  book  by  the  first  of  March ;  having  writ 
ten  her  plan  in  prose  at  full  length,  containing  about  the  same 
number  of  lines  as  the  poem.  "  During  its  progress,"  says 
Mrs.  Davidson,  "  when  fatigued  with  writing,  she  would  take 
her  kitten,  and  recline  upon  her  sofa,  asking  me  to  relate  to 
her  some  of  the  scenes  of  the  last  war.  Accordingly,  I  would 
while  away  our  solitude  by  repeating  anecdotes  of  that  period ; 
and  before  Lenore  was  completed  she  had  advanced  several 
pages  in  a  prose  tale,  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  upon  Lake 
Champlain  during  the  last  war.  She  at  the  same  time  exe 
cuted  faces  and  figures  in  crayon,  which  would  not  have  dis 
graced  the  pencil  of  an  artist.  Her  labours  were  truly  im 
mense.  Yet  a  stranger  coming  occasionally  to  the  house 
would  hardly  observe  that  she  had  any  pressing  avoca 
tions." 

The  following  are  extracts  from  a  rough  draught  of  a  letter 
written  to  Miss  Sedgwick  about  this  time. 
7 


82  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

**  MY  DEAR  MADAM,     • 

"I  wish  I  could  express. to  you  my  pleasure  on  receiving 
your  kind  and  affectionate  letter.  So  far  from  considering 
myself  neglected  by  your  silence,  I  felt  it  a  great  privilege 
to  be  permitted  to  write  to  you,  and  knew  that  I  ought  not 
to  expect  a  regular  answer  to  every  letter,  even  while  I  was 
longing,  day  after  day,  to  receive  this  gratifying  token  of 
remembrance.  Unless  you  had  witnessed,  I  fear  you  would 
hardly  believe  my  extravagant  delight  on  reading  the  dear 
Jittle  folded  paper,  so  expressive  of  your  kind  recollection. 
I  positively  danced  for  joy ;  bestowed  a  thousand  caresses 
upon  every  body  and  every  thing  I  loved,  dreamed  of  you 
all  night,  and  arose  next  morning  (with  a  heart  full,)  to 
answer  your  letter,  but  was  prevented  by  indisposition,  and 
have  not  been  able  until  now  to  perform  a  most  pleasing 
duty  by  acknowledging  its  receipt.  My  health  during  the 
past  winter  has  been  much  better  than  we  had  anticipated. 
It  is  true  I  have  been  with  dear  mother,  entirely  confined 
to  the  house,  but  being  able  to  read,  write,  and  perform  all 
my  usual  employments,  I  feel  that  I  have  much  more  reason 
to  be  thankful  for  the  blessings  continued  to  me,  than  to 
repine  because  a  few  have  been  denied.  But  spring  is  now 
here  in  name,  if  not  in  reality,  and  I  can  assure  you  my 
heart  bounds  at  the  thought  of  once  more  escaping  from 
my  confinement,  and  breathing  the  pure  air  of  Heaven, 
without  fearing  a  blight  or  consumption  in  every  breeze. 
Spring !  What  pleasure  does  that  magic  syllable  convey  to 
the  heart  of  an  invalid,  laden  with  sweet  promises,  and 
bringing  before  his  mind  visions  of  liberty,  which  those  who 
are  always  free  cannot  enjoy.  Thus  do  I  dream  of  summer, 
i  may  never  see,  and  make  myself  happy  for  hours  in 
anticipating  pleasures  I  may  never  share.  It  is  an  idle 
employment,  and  little  calculated  to  sweeten  disappoint 
ment.  But  it  has  opened  to  me  many  sources  of  delight 
otherwise  unknown;  and  when  out  of  humour  with  the 
present,  I  have  only  to  send  fancy  flower-gathering  in  the 
future,  and  I  find  myself  fully  repaid.  Dear  mother's  health 
lias  also  been  much  better  than  we  had  feared,  and  her  ill 
turns  less  frequent  and  severe.  She  sits  up  most  of  the 
day,  walks  around  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  and  enjoys 
her  book  and  her  pen  as  much  as  ever.  *****  *  You 
speak  of  your  intercourse  with  Mrs.  Jameson.  It  must 
indeed  be  an  exquisite  pleasure  to  be  intimately  associated 
with  a  mind  like  hers.  I  have  never  seen  any  thing  but 
extracts  from  her  writings,  but  must  obtain  and  read  them. 
I  suppose  the  world  is  anxiously  looking  for  her  next  volume. 
*  *  *  "We  have  been  reading  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott.  Is 
it  not  a  deeply  interesting  work?  In  what  a  beautiful  light 
it  represents  the  character  of  that  great  and  good  man 


BIOGRAPHY.  83 

No  one  can  read  his  life  or  his  works  without  loving  and 
venerating  him.  As  to  '  the  waters  of  Helicon'  we  have  but 
a  few  niggardly  streams  in  this,  our  matter-of-fact  village ; 
and  father  in  his  medical  capacity  has  forbidden  my  par 
taking  of  them  as  freely  as  I  could  wish.  But  no  matter, 
they  have  been  frozen  up,  and  will  flow  in  « streams  more 
salubrious '  beneath  the  milder  sky  of  spring." 

In  all  her  letters  we  find  a  solicitude  about  her  mother's 
health,  rather  than  about  her  own,  and  indeed  it  was  difficult 
to  say  which  was  most  precarious. 

The  following  extract  from  a  poem  written  about  this  time 
to  "  Her  Mother  on  her  fiftieth  Birthday"  presents  a  beautiful 
portrait,  and  does  honour  to  the  filial  hand  that  drew  "it. 

Yes,  mother,  fifty  years  have  fled 
With  rapid  footsteps  o'er  thy  head ; 
Have  past  with  all  their  motley  train, 
And  left  thee  on  thy  couch  of  pain  ! 
How  many  smiles  and  sighs  and  tears, 
How  many  hopes  and  doubts  and  fears 
Have  vanish' d  with  that  lapse  of  years. 

Oh  that  we  all  could  look  like  thee, 
Back  on  that  dark  and  tideless  sea, 
And  'mid  its  varied  records  find 
A  heart  at  ease  with  all  mankind, 
A  firm  and  self-approving  mind — 
Grief  that  had  broken  hearts  less  fine 
Hath  only  served  to  strengthen  thine. 

Time  that  doth  chill  the  fancy's  play 
Hath  kindled  thine  with  purer  ray  :" 
And  stern  disease,  whose  icy  dart 
Hath  power  to  chill  the  breaking  hear*, 
Hath  left  thine  warm  with  love  and  truth, 
As  in  the  halcyon  days  of  youth. 

The  following  letter  was  written  on  the  26th  of  March,  to 
a  female  cousin  resident  in  New  York. 

"  DEAR  KATE  :  This  day  I  am  fifteen,  and  you  can,  you 
will,  readily  pardon  and  account  for  the  absurd  flights  of 
my  pen,  by  supposing  that  my  tutelary  spirits,  nonsense 
and  folly,  have  assembled  around  the  being  of  their  crea 
tion,  and  claimed  the  day  as  exclusively  their  own  ;  then  I 
pray  you  to  lay  to  their  account  all  that  I  have  already 
scribbled,  and  believe  that,  uninfluenced  by  these  grinning 
deities,  I  can  think  and  feel,  and  love,  as  I  love  you  with  all 
warmth  and  sincerity  of  heart.  Do  you  remember  how 
we  used  to  look  forward  to  sweet  fifteen  as  the  pinnacle  of 
human  happiness,  the  golden  age  of  existence  1  You  have 
but  lately  passed  that  milestone  in  the  highway  of  lifr;  I 
have  just  reached  it,  but  I  find  myself  no  better  satisfied  to 


*'*  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

stand  still  than  before,  and  look  forward  to  the  continuance 
of  my  journey  with  the  same  ardent  longing  I  felt  at  fourteen. 
"  Ah,  Kate,  here  we  are,  two  young  travellers  starting 
forth  upon  our  long  pilgrimage,  and  knowing  not  whither 
it  may  conduct  us !  You  some  months  my  superior  in  age, 
and  many  years  in  acquaintance  with  society,  in  external 
attractions,  and  all  those  accomplishments  necessary  to 
form  an  elegant  woman.  /,  knowing  nothing  of  life  but 
from  books,  and  a  small  circle  of  friends,  who  love  me  as  I 
love  them ;  looking  upon  the  past  as  a  faded  dream,  which 
I  shall  have  time  enough  to  study  and  expound  when  old 
age  and  sorrow  come  on;  upon  the  present  as  a  nursling, 
a  preparative  for  the  future;  and  upon  that  future,  as  what! 
a  mighty  whirlpool,  of  hopes  and  fears,  of  bright  anticipa 
tions  and  bitter  disappointments,  into  which  I  shall  soon 
plunge,  and  find  there,  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the 
world,  my  happiness  or  misery."  *  *  * 

The  following  to  a  young  friend,  was  also  written  on  the 
26th  of  March. 

"  MY  DEAR  H. :  You  must  know  that  winter  has  come, 
and  gone,  and  neither  mother  nor  myself  have  felt  a  single 
breeze  which  could  not  force  its  way  through  the  thick 
walls  of  our  little  dwelling.  Do  you  not  think  I  am  looking 
gladly  forward  to  April  and  May,  as  the  lovely  sisters  who 
are  to  unlock  the  doors  of  our  prison  house,  and  give  us 
once  more  to  the  free  enjoyment  of  nature,  without  fearing 
a  blight  or  a  consumption  in  every  breath  ?  And  now  for 
another,  and  even  more  delightful  anticipation — your  visit ! 
Are  you  indeed  coming  ?  And  when  are  you  coming  ?  Do 
answer  the  first,  that  I  may  for  once  have  the  pleasure  of 
framing  delightful  visions  without  finding  them  dashed  to 
the  ground  by  the  iron  hand  of  reality ;  and  the  last,  that  I 
may  not  expect  you  too  soon,  and  thus  subject  myself  to 
all  the  bitterness  of  "  hope  deferred."  Come,  for  I  have  so 
much  to  say  to  you,  that  I  cannot  possibly  contain  it  until 
summer;  and  come  quickly,  unless  you  are  willing  to 
account  for  my  wasted  time  as  well  as  your  own,  for  I  shall 
do  little  else  but  dream  of  you  and  your  visit  until  the  time 
of  your  arrival.  You  cannot  imagine  how  those  few  words 
in  your  little  good  for  nothing  letter  have  completely  upset 
my  wonted  gravity.  Do  not  disappoint  me.  It  is  true, 
mother  and  I  are  both  feeble  and  unable  to  go  out  with  you 
and  show  you  the  lions  of  our  little  village;  but  if  warm 
welcomes  can  atone  for  the  want  of  ceremony,  you  shall 
have  them  in  abundance:  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  shall 
want  to  pin  you  down  in  a  chair,  and  do  nothing  but  look 
at  you  from  morning  till  night.  As  to  coming  to  Platts- 
burgh,  I  think  if  we  cannot  do  so  in  the  spring,  (which  is 


BIOGRAPHY.  85 

loubtful,)  we  certainly  shall  in  the  course  of  the  summer. 
Brother  M.  wrote  to  me  yesterday,  saying  that  he  would 
spend  the  month  of  August  in  the  country,  and  if  nothing 
occurred  to  prevent,  we  would  take  our  delightful  trip  by 
the  way  of  Lake  George.  Oh  it  will  be  so  pleasant !  But 
my  anticipations  are  now  all  bent  upon  a  nearer  object. 
Do  not  allow  a  slight  impediment  to  destroy  them.  We 
expect  in  May  to  move  to  Saratoga.  We  shall  then  have 
a  more  convenient  house,  better  society,  and  the  benefit  of 
a  school  in  which  I  can  practise  music  and  drawing,  without 
being  obliged  to  attend  regularly.  We  shall  then  be  a  few 
miles  nearer  to  you,  and  at  present  that  seems  something 
desirable  to  me.  I  have  read  and  own  three  volumes  of 
Scott's  life,  and  was  much  disappointed  to  find  that  it  was 
not  finished  in  these  three,  but  concluded  the  remainder  had 
not  yet  come  out.  Are  the  five  volumes  all  1  it  is  indeed  a 
deeply  interesting  work.  I  am  very  fond  of  biography,  for 
surely  there  can  be  nothing  more  delightful  or  instructive 
than  to  trace  in  the  infancy  and  youth  of  every  noble  mind 
the  germs  of  its  future  greatness.  Have  you  read  a  work 
called  Letters  from  Palmyra,  by  Mr.  Ware  of  New  York  1 
I  have  not  yet  seen  it,  but  intend  to  do  so  soon.  It  is  writ 
ten  in  the  character  of  a  citizen  of  Rome  at  that  early 
period,  and  it  is  said  to  be  a  lively  picture  of  the  manners 
and  customs  of  the  imperial  city,  and  still  more  of  the 
magnificence  of  Palmyra,  and  its  splendid  queen  Zenobia. 
It  also  contains  a  beautiful  story.  I  have  lately  been  re- 
perusing  many  of  Scott's  novels,  and  intend  to  finish  them. 
Was  ever  any  thing  half  so  fascinating  1  Oh  how  I  long  to 
have  you  here  and  tell  you  all  these  little  things  in  person. 
Do  write  to  me  immediately,  and  tell  me  when  we  may 
expect  you ;  I  shall  open  your  next  with  a  beating  heart. 
Do  excuse  all  the  blunders  and  scrawls  of  this  hasty  letter. 
You  must  receive  it  as  a  proof  of  friendship,  for  to  a  stran 
ger,  or  one  who  I  thought  would  look  upon  it  with  a  cold 
and  critical  eye,  I  certainly  should  not  send  it.  I  believe 
you  and  I  have  entered  into  a  tacit  agreement  to  forgive 
any  little  mistakes,  which  the  other  may  chance  to  commit. 
Croyez  moi  ma  chere  amie  votre 

MARGUERITE." 

The  spirits  of  this  most  sensitive  little  being  became  more 
and  more  excited  with  the  opening  of  spring.  "  She  watched," 
says  her  mother,  "  the  putting  forth  of  the  tender  grass  and 
the  young  blossoms  as  the  period  which  was  to  liberate  her 
from  captivity.  She  was  pleased  with  every  body  and  every 
thing.  She  loved  every  thing  in  nature,  both  animate  and 

inanimate,  with  a  warmth  of  affection  which  displayed  the 
-  7* 


>A6  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

benevolence  of  her  own  heart.  She  felt  that  she  was  well, 
and  oh  !  the  bright  dreams  and  imaginings  the  cloudless  future 
presented  to  her  ardent  mind — all  was  sunny  arid  gay." 

The  following  letter  is  highly  expressive  of  the  state  of  her 
feelings  at  that  period. 

"  A  few  days  since,  my  dearest  cousin,  I  received  your 
affectionate  letter,  and  if  my  heart  smote  me  at  the  sight 
of  the  well-known  superscription,  you  may  imagine  how 
unmercifully  it  thumped  on  reading  a  letter  so  full  of  affec 
tion,  and  so  entirely  devoid  of  reproach  for  my  unkindly 
negligence.  I  can  assure  you,  my  dear  coz,  you  could  have 
no  better  way  of  striking  home  to  my  heart  the  conviction 
of  my  error;  and  I  resolved  that  hour,  that  moment,  to  lay 
my  confessions  at  your  feet,  and  sue  for  forgiveness;  I 
knew  you  were  too  gentle  to  refuse.  But  alas !  for  human 
resolves!  We  were  that  afternoon  expecting  brother  M. 
Dear  brother !  And  how  could  I  collect  my  floating  thoughts 
and  curl  myself  up  into  a  corner  with  pen,  ink  and  paper 
before  me,  when  my  heart  was  flying  away  over  the  sand 
hills  of  this  unromantic  region,  to  meet  and  embrace  and 
welcome  home  the  wanderer?  If  it  can  interest  you,  picture 
to  yourself  the  little  scene :  Mother  and  I  breathless  with 
expectation,  gazing  from  the  window,  in  mute  suspense, 
and  listening  to  the  'phiz,  phiz,'  of  the  great  steam-engine. 
Then  when  we  caught  a  rapid  glance  of  his  trim  little  figure, 
how  we  bounded  away  over  chairs,  sofas,  and  kittens,  to 
bestow  in  reality  the  greeting  fancy  had  so  often  given  him. 
Oh !  what  is  so  delightful  as  to  welcome  a  friend !  Well, 
three  days  have  passed  like  a  dream,  and  he  is  gone  again. 
I  am  seated  at  my  little  table  by  the  fire.  Mother  is  sewing 
beside  me.  Puss  is  slumbering  on  the  hearth,  and  nothing 
external  remains  to  convince  us  of  the  truth  of  that  bright 
sunbeam  which  had  suddenly  broken  upon  our  quiet  retreat, 
and  departed  like  a  vision  as  suddenly.  When  shall  we 
have  the  pleasure  of  welcoming  you  thus,  my  beloved  cou 
sin  ?  Your  flying  call  of  last  summer  was  but  an  aggrava 
tion.  Oh !  may  all  good  angels  watch  over  you  and  all  you 
love,  shake  the  dew  of  health  from  their  balmy  wings  upon 
your  smiling  home,  and  waft  you  hither,  cheerful  and  happy, 
to  sojourn  awhile  with  the  friends  who  love  you  so  dearly ! 
All  hail  to  spring,  the  bright,  the  blooming,  the  renovating 
spring !  Oh  !  I  am  so  happy — I  feel  a  lightness  at  my  heart, 
and  a  vigour  in  my  frame  that  I  have  rarely  felt.  If  I  speak 
my  voice  forms  itself  into  a  laugh.  If  I  look  forward,  every 
thing  seems  bright  before  me.  If  I  look  back,  memory  calls 
up  what  is  pleasant,  and  my  greatest  desire  is  that  my  pen 
could  fling  a  ray  of  sunshine  over  this  scribbled  page,  ana 
infuse  into  your  heart  some  of  the  cheerfulness  of  my  own. 


BIOGRAPHY.  87 

I  have  been  confined  to  the  house  all  winter,  as  it  was 
thought  the  best  and  only  way  of  restoring  my  health.  Now 
my  symptoms  are  all  better,  and  I  am  looking  forward  to 
next  month  and  its  blue  skies  with  the  most  childish  impa 
tience.  By  the  way,  I  am  not  to  be  called  a  child  any  more; 
for  yesterday  I  was  fifteen,  what  say  you  to  that  ?  I  feel 
quite  like  an  old  woman,  and  think  of  putting  on  caps  and 
spectacles  next  month." 

It  was  during  the  same  exuberance  of  happy  feeling,  with 
the  delusive  idea  of  confirmed  health,  and  the  anticipation  of 
bright  enjoyments,  that  she  broke  forth  like  a  bird  into  the 
following  strain  of  melody. 

Oh,  my  bosom  is  throbbing  with  joy, 

With  a  rapture  too  full  to  express  ; 
From  within  and  wiihout  I  am  blest, 

And  the  world,  like  myself,  I  would  bless. 

All  nature  looks  fair  to  my  eye, 

From  beneath  and  around  and  above, 
Hope  smiles  in  the  clear  azure  sky, 

And  the  broad  earth  is  glowing  with  love. 

I  stand  on  the  threshold  of  life, 

On  the  shore  of  its  wide-rolling  sea, 
I  have  heard  of  its  storms  and  its  strife, 

But  all  things  are  tranquil  to  me. 

There  's  a  veil  o'er  the  future — 'tis  bright 

As  the  wing  of  a  spirit  of  air, 
And  each  form  of  enchantment  and  light 

Is  trembling  in  Iris  hues  there. 

I  turn  to  the  world  of  affection, 

And  warm,  glowing  treasures  are  mine  ; 
To  the  past,  and  my  fond  recollection 

Gathers  roses  from  memory's  shrine. 

But  oh,  there's  a  fountain  of  joy 

More  rich  than  a  kingdom  beside  ; 
It  is  holy — death  cannot  destroy 

The  flow  of  its  heavenly  tide. 

'Tis  the  love  that  is  gushing  within — 

It  would  bathe  the  whole  world  in  its  lidu 

The  cold  stream  of  lime  shall  not  quench, 
The  dark  frown  of  woe  shall  not  blight. 

These  visions  of  pleasure  may  vanish, 

These  bright  dreams  of  .youth  disappear 
Disappointment  each  air  hue  may  banish, 

And  drown  each  frail  joy  in  a  tear. 

I  may  plunge  in  the  billows  of  life, 

I  may  taste  of  its  dark  cup  of  woe, 
I  may  weep,  and  the  sad  drops  of  grief 

May  blend  with  the  waves  as  they  flow 


88  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

I  may  dream,  till  reality's  shadow 

O'er  the  light  form  of  fancy  is  cast ; 
I  may  hope,  until  hope,  too,  despairing 

Has  crept — to  the  grave  of  the  past. 

But  though  the  wild  waters  surround  me, 

Misfortune,  temptation,  and  sin, 
Though  fear  be  about  and  beyond  me, 

And  sorrow's  dark  shadow  within  ; 

Though  age,  with  an  icy-cold  finger, 

May  stamp  his  pale  seal  on  my  brow 
Still,  still  in  my  bosom  shall  linger 

The  glow  that  is  warming  it  now. 

Youth  will  vanish,  and  pleasure,  gay  charmer, 

May  depart  on  the  wings  of  to-day, 
But  that  spot  in  my  heart  shall  grow  warmer, 

As  year  after  year  rolls  away. 

"  While  her  spirits  were  thus  light  and  gay,"  says  Mrs. 
Davidson,  "  from  the  prospect  of  returning  health,  my  more 
mature  judgment  told  me  that  those  appearances  might  be 
deceptive — that  even  now  the  destroyer  might  be  making  sure 
his  work  of  destruction ;  but  she  really  seemed  better,  the 
cough  had  subsided,  her  step  was  buoyant,  her  face  glowed 
with  animation,  her  eye  was  bright,  and  love,  boundless,  uni 
versal  love,  seemed  to  fill  her  young  heart.  Every  symptom 
of  her  disease  assumed  a  more  favourable  cast.  Oh  how  my 
heart  swelled  with  the  mingled  emotions  of  hope,  doubt,  and 
gratitude !  Our  hopes  of  her  ultimate  recovery  seemed  to  be 
founded  upon  reason,  yet  her  father  still  doubted  the  propriety 
of  our  return  to  Lake  Champlain ;  and  as  Saratoga  held  out 
many  more  advantages  than  Ballston  as  a  temporary  resi 
dence,  he  decided  to  spend  the  ensuing  year  or  two  there ; 
and  then  we  might  perhaps,  without  much  risk,  return  to  our 
much-loved  and  long-deserted  home  on  the  banks  of  the 
Saranac.  Accordingly  a  house  was  taken,  and  every  prepa 
ration  made  for  our  removal  to  Saratoga  on  the  first  of  May. 
Margaret  was  pleased  with  the  arrangement." 

The  following  playful  extract  of  a  letter  to  her  brother  in 
New  York,  exhibits  her  feelings  on  the  prospect  of  their 
change  of  residence : 

"I  now  most  humbly  avail  myself  of  your  most  gracious 
permission  to  scribble  you  a  few  lines  in  token  of  my  ever 
lasting  love.  *  This  is  to  inform  you  I  am  very  well,  hoping 
these  few  lines  will  find  you  in  possession  of  the  same  bless 
ing' — notwithstanding  the  blue  streaks  that  flitted  over  your 
pathway  a  few  days  after  you  left  us.  Perhaps  it  was  occa- 


BIOGRAPHY.  89 

led  by  remorse,  at  the  cruelty  of  your  parting  speech ; 
perhaps  it  was  the  reflection  of  a  bright  blue  eye,  upon  the 
deep  waters  of  your  soul ;  but  let  the  cause  be  what  it  may, 
'  biack  spirits  or  white,  blue  spirits  or  grey,'  1  hope  the  effect 
has  entirely  disappeared,  and  you  are  no  longer  tinged  with 
its  most  doleful  shadow.  A  blue  sky,  a  blue  eye,  or  the  blue 
dye  of  the  violet,  are  all  undeniably  beautiful,  but  this  tint 
when  transferred  from  the  works  of  nature  to  the  brow  of 
man,  or  the  stockings  of  woman,  becomes  a  thing  to  ridicule 
or  weep  at.  May  your  spirits  henceforth,  my  dear  brother, 
be  preserved  from  this  ill-omened  influence,  and  may  your 
feet  and  ankles  never  be  graced  with  garments  of  a  hue  so 
repulsive.  Oh,  brother,  we  are  all  in  the  heat  of  moving ; 
we,  1  say — you  will  account  for  the  use  of  that  personal 
pronoun  on  the  authority  of  the  old  proverb,  « What  a  dust 
we  flies  raise,'  for,  to  be  frank  with  you,  I  have  little  or  no 
thing  to  do  with  it,  but  poor  mother  is-  over  head  and  ears 
in  boxes,  bedclothes,  carpets,  straw  and  discussions.  Our 
hall  is  already  filled  with  the  fruits  of  her  labours  and  per 
severance,  in  the  shape  of  certain  blue  chests,  carpet  cases, 
trunks,  boxes,  &c.,  all  ready  for  a  move.  Dear  mother  is 
head,  hands,  and  feet  for  the  whole  machine ;  our  two  helps 
being  nothing  but  cranks,  which  turn  when  you  touch  them, 
and  cease  their  rotary  movement  when  the  force  is  with 
drawn.  Heigho!  We  miss  our  good  C ,  with  her  quick 

invention  and  hopeful  hand.  *****  Qh,  my  dear  brother, 
1  am  anticipating  so  much  pleasure  next  summer,  I  hope  it 
will  not  all  prove  a  dream.  It  will  be  so  delightful  when 

you  come  up  in  August  and  bring  cousin  K with  you ; 

tell  her  I  am  calculating  upon  this  pleasure  with  all  my 
powers  of  fore-enjoyment — tell  her  also,  that  I  am  waiting 
most  impatiently  for  that  annihilating  letter  of  hers,  and  if 
it  does  not  come  soon,  I  shall  send  her  another  cannonade, 
ere  she  has  recovered  the  stunning  effects  of  the  first.  Oh 
dear!  I  have  written  a  most  disunderstandable  letter,  and 
now  you  must  excuse  me,  as  I  have  declared  war  against 
M ,  and  after  mending  my  pen,  must  collect  all  my  scat 
tered  ideas  into  a  fleet,  and  launch  them  for  a  combat  upon 
a  whole  sea  of  ink." 

"  The  exuberance  of  her  spirits,"  says  her  mother,  "  as  the 
spring  advanced,  and  she  was  enabled  once  more  to  take  exer 
cise  in  the  open  air,  displayed  itself  in  every  thing.  Her 
heart  was  overflowing  with  thankfulness  and  love.  Every 
fine  day  in  the  latter  part  of  April,  she  either  rode  on  horse 
back  or  drove  out  in  a  carriage.  All  nature  looked  lovely  to 
her,  not  a  tree  or  shrub  but  conveyed  some  poetical  image  or 
moral  lesson  to  her  mind.  The  moment,  however,  that  she 


9Q  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

began  to  take  daily  exercise  in  the  open  air,  I  again  heard 
with  agony  the  prophetic  cough.  I  felt  that  all  was  over ! 
She  thought  that  she  had  taken  cold,  and  our  friends  were  of 
the  same  opinion.  '  It  was  a  slight  cold  which  would  vanish 
beneath  the  mild  influence  of  spring.'  I,  however,  feared 
that  her  father's  hopes  might  have  blinded  his  judgment,  and 
upon  my  own  responsibility  consulted  a  skilful  physician,  who 
had  on  many  former  occasions  attended  her.  She  was  not 
aware  of  my  present  alarm,  or  that  the  physician  was  now 
consulted.  He  managed  in  a  playful  manner  to  feel  her 
pulse,  without  her  suspicions.  After  he  had  left  the  room, 
'  Madam,'  said  he,  *  it  is  useless  to  hold  out  any  false  hopes  ; 
your  daughter  has  a  seated  consumption,  which  is,  I  fear, 
beyond  the  reach  of  medical  skill.  There  is  no  hope  in  the 
case ;  make  her  as  happy  and  as  comfortable  as  you  can ; 
let  her  enjoy  riding  in  pleasant  weather,  but  her  walks  must 
be  given  up;  walking  is  too  great  an  exertion  for  her.'  With 
an  aching  heart  I  returned  to  the  lovely  unconscious  victim, 
and  found  her  tying  on  her  hat  for  a  ramble.  I  gently  tried 
to  dissuade  her  from  going.  She  caught  my  eye,  and  read 
there  a  tale  of  grief,  which  she  could  not  understand,  and  I 
could  not  explain.  As  soon  as  I  dared  trust  my  voice,  I  said, 
1  My  dear  Margaret,  nothing  has  happened,  only  I  have  just 

been  speaking  with  Dr. ,  respecting  you,  and  he  advises 

that  you  give  up  walking  altogether.  Knowing  how  much 
you  enjoy  it,  I  am  pained  to  mention  this,  for  I  know  that  it 
will  be  a  great  privation.'  '  Why,  mamma,'  she  exclaimed, 
'  this  cold  is  wearing  off,  may  I  not  walk  then  ?'  «  The  Doctor 
thinks  you  should  make  no  exertion  of  that  kind,  but  riding 
in  fine  weather  may  have  a  happy  effect.'  She  stood  and 
gazed  upon  my  face  long  and  earnestly  ;  then  untied  her  hat 
and  sat  down,  apparently  ruminating  upon  what  had  past  ; 
she  asked  no  questions,  but  an  expression  of  thoughtfulness 
clouded  her  brow  during  the  rest  of  the  day.  It  was  settled 
that  she  was  to  ride  out  in  fine  weather,  but  not  to  walk  out 
at  all,  and  in  a  day  or  two  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the 
circumstance  altogether.  The  return  of  the  cough,  and  pro 
fuse  night  perspirations,  too  plainly  told  me  her  doom,  but  I 
still  clung  to  the  hope,  that,  as  she  suffered  no  pain,  she 
might,  by  tender  judicious  treatment,  continue  yet  for  years. 
I  urged  her  to  remit  her  labours  ;  she  saw  how  much  my 
heart  was  in  the  request,  and  promised  to  comply  with  my 
wishes.  On  the  first  of  May  we  removed  to  Saratoga.  One 


BIOGRAPHY.  91 

short  half  hour  in  the  railroad-car  completed  the  journey,  and 
she  arrived  fresh,  cheerful,  and  blooming  in  her  appearance, 
such  an  effect  had  the  excitement  of  pleasure  upon  her  lovely 
face." 

On  the  day  we  left  Ballston  she  wrote  a  "Parting  Word" 
to  Mrs.  H.,  who  had  been  one  of  our  most  intimate  and  af 
fectionate  visitors  throughout  the  winter,  and  whose  husband 
had  assisted  her  much  in  her  studies  of  moral  philosophy, 
as  well  as  delighted  her  by  his  varied  and  instructive  con 
versation. 

A  PARTING  WORD  TO  MY  DEAR  MRS.  H. 

Ballston  Spa.  April  3,),  1838 

At  length  the  awful  morn  hath  come, 

The  parting  hour  is  nigh, 
And  I  sit  down  'mid  dust  and  gloom, 

To  bid  you  brief  "good-bye." 

Each  voice  to  fancy's  listening  ear 

Repeats  the  doleful  cry, 
And  the  bare  walls  and  sanded  floor 

Re-echo  back  "good-bye." 

So  must  it  be ;  but  many  a  thought 

Comes  crowding  on  my  mind, 
Of  the  dear  friends,  the  happy  hours, 

The  joys  we  leave  behind. 

How  we  shall  miss  your  cheerful  face, 

For  ever  bright  and  smiling, 
And  your  sweet  voice,  so  often  heard, 

Our  weary  hours  beguiling! 

How  shall  we  miss  the  kindly  hearts, 

Which  none  can  know  unloving, 
Whose  thoughts  and  feelings  none  can  read, 

Nor  find  his  own  improving ! 

And  he,  whose  converse,  hour  by  hour, 

Hath  lent  old  Time  new  pinions, 
Whose  hand  hath  drawn  the  shadowy  v(\l 

From  wisdom's  broad  dominions  ; 

Whose  voice  hath  poured  forth  priceless  gem? 

Scarce  conscious  that  he  taught, 
Whose  mind  of  broad,  of  loftiest  reach, 

Hath  shower' d  down  thought  on  thought. 

True,  we  may  meet  with  many  a  dear 

And  cherish'd  friend,  but  yet 
Oft  shall  we  cast  a  backward  glance 

Of  wistful,  vain  regret. 

When  evening  spreads  her  sombre  vuil, 

To  fold  the  slumbering  earth, 
When  our  small  circle  closes  round 

The  humble,  social  hearth 


02  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Oft  shall  we  dream  of  hours  gone  by 

And  con  these  moments  o'er, 
Till  we  half  bend  our  ears  to  catch 

Your  footsteps  at  the  door, 
And  then  turn  back  and  sigh  to  think 

We  hear  those  steps  no  more  ! 

But  though  these  dismal  thoughts  arise 

Hope  makes  me  happy  still ; 
There  is  a  drop  of  comfort  lurks 

In  every  draught  of  ill ! 

By  pain  and  care  each  joy  of  earth 

More  exquisite  is  made, 
And  when  we  meet,  the  parting  grief 

Shall  doubly  be  o'erpaid. 

In  disappointments  deep  too  quick 

Our  fairest  prospects  drown, 
Let  not  this  hope,  which  blooms  so  bright, 

Be  wither'd  at  his  frown ! 

Come,  and  a  mother's  pallid  cheek 

Shall  brighten  at  your  smile, 
And  her  poor  frame,  so  faint  and  weak, 

Forget  its  pains  the  while. 

Come,  and  a  glad  and  happy  heart 

Shall  give  the  welcome  kiss, 
And  puss  shall  purr,  and  frisk,  and  mew, 

In  token  of  her  bliss. 

Come !  and  behold  how  I  improvo 

In  dusting — cleaning — sweeping ; 
And  I  will  hear,  with  patient  ear, 

Your  lectures  on  housekeeping. 

And  now,  may  all  good  angels  guard 

Your  path  where'er  it  lie ; 
May  peace  reign  monarch  in  your  breast, 

And  gladness  in  your  eye. 

And  may  the  dews  of  health  descend 

On  him  you  cherish  best, 
To  his  worn  frame  their  influence  lend, 

And  calm  each  nerve  to  rest! 

And  may  we  meet  again,  nor  feel 

The  parting  hour  so  nigh — 
Peace,  love,  and  happiness  to  all, 

Once  more — once  more,  "good-bye!" 

••  She  interested  herself,"  continued  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  more 
than  I  had  anticipated  in  the  arrangement  of  our  new  habita 
tion,  and  in  forming  plans  of  future  enjoyment  with  our 
friends  when  they  should  visit  us ;  I  exerted  myself  to  please 
her  taste  in  every  thing,  although  she  was  prohibited  from 
making  the  slightest  physical  exertion  herself.  The  house 


BIOGRAPHY.  93 

settled,  then  came  the  flower-garden,  in  which  she  spent  more 
time  than  I  thought  prudent ;  but  she  was  so  happy  while 
thus  engaged,  and  the  weather  being  fine,  and  the  gardener 
disposed  to  gratify  and  carry  all  her  little  plans  into  effect,  I, 
like  a  weak  mother,  wanted  resolution  to  interfere,  and  have 
always  reproached  myself  for  it,  although  not  conscious  that 
it  was  an  injury  at  the  time.  Her  brother  had  invited  her  to 
return  to  New  York  with  him  when  he  came  to  visit  us  in 
June,  and  she  was  now  impatiently  counting  the  days  until 
his  arrival.  Her  feelings  are  portrayed  in  a  letter  to  her 
young  friend  H." 

"  Saratoga,  June  1,  1838. 

"  June  is  at  last  with  us,  my  dear  cousin,  and  the  blue- 
eyed  goddess  could  not  have  looked  upon  the  green  bosom 
of  her  mother  earth  attired  in  a  lovelier  or  more  enchanting 
robe.  I  am  seated  by  an  open  window,  and  the  breeze, 
laden  with  the  perfumes  of  the  blossoms  and  opening  leaves, 
just  lifts  the  edge  of  my  sheet,  and  steals  with  the  gentlest 
footsteps  imaginable  to  fan  my  cheek  and  forehead.  The 
grass,  tinged  with  the  deepest  and  freshest  green,  is  waving 
beneath  its  influence;  the  birds  are  singing  their  sweetest 
songs;  and  as  I  look  into  the  depths  of  the  clear  blue  sky 
the  rich  tints  appear  to  flit  higher  and  higher  as  I  gaze,  till 
my  eye  seems  searching  into  immeasurable  distance.  Oh ! 
such  a  day  as  this,  it  is  a  luxury  to  breathe.  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  frisk  and  gambol  like  my  kitten  from  the  mere  con 
sciousness  of  life.  Yet  with  all  the  loveliness  around  me  I 
reperuse  your  letter,  and  long  for  wings  to  fly  from  it  all  to 
the  dull  atmosphere  and  crowded  highways  of  the  city. 
Yes !  I  could  then  look  into  your  eyes,  and  I  should  forget 
the  blue  sky ;  and  your  smile,  and  your  voice  would  doubly 
compensate  me  for  the  loss  of  green  trees  and  singing  birds. 
There  are  green  trees  in  the  heart  which  shed  a  softer  per 
fume,  and  birds  which  sing  more  sweetly.  *  Nonsense! 
Mag  is  growing  sentimental !'  1  knew  you  would  say  so, 
but  the  streak  came  across  me,  and  you  have  it  at  full 
length.  In  plainer  terms,  how  delighted,  how  more  than 
delighted  I  shall  be  when  I  do  come !  when  I  do  come,  Kate ! 
oh  !  oh  !  oh ! — what  would  our  language  be  without  inter 
jections,  those  expressive  parts  of  speech,  which  say  so 
much  in  so  small  a  compass?  Now  I  am  sure  you  can  un 
derstand  from  these  three  syllables  all  the  pleasure,  the 
rapture  I  anticipate ;  the  meeting,  the  parting,  all  the  com 
ponent  parts  of  that  great  whole  which  I  denominate  a  visit 
to  New  York !  No,  not  to  New  York !  but  to  the  few  dear 
friends  whose  society  will  afford  me  all  the  enjoyment  I  ex 
pect  or  desire,  and  who,  in  fact,  constitute  all  my  New  York. 
8 


94  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

June  2d.  I  had  written  thus  far,  dear  Kate,  when  I  was 
most  agreeably  interrupted  by  a  proposal  for  a  ride  on 
horseback;  my  sheet  slid  of  itself  into  the  open  drawer, 
my  hat  and  dress  flew  on  as  if  by  instinct,  and  in  ten 
minutes  I  was  galloping  full  speed  through  the  streets  of 
our  little  village  with  father  by  my  side.  I  rode  till  nearly 
tea-time,  and  came  home  tired,  tired,  tired;  oh,  I  ache  to 
think  of  it.  My  poor  letter  slept  all  night  as  soundly  as  its 
writer,  but  now  that  another  day  has  dawned,  the  very 
opposite  of  its  predecessor,  damp,  dark,  and  rainy,  I  have 
drawn  it  forth  from  its  receptacle,  and  seek  to  dissipate  all 
outward  gloom,  by  communing  with  one  the  thought  of 
whom  conveys  to  my  mind  any  thing  but  melancholy.  Oh, 
Kate,  Kate,  in  spite  of  your  disinterested  and  sober  advice 
to  the  contrary,  I  shall  come,  I  shall  soon  come,  just  as  soon 
as  M.  can  and  will  run  up  for  me.  Yet,  perhaps,  in  the  end 
I  shall  be  disappointed.  My  happy  anticipations  resemble 
the  cloudless  sky  of  yesterday,  and  who  knows  but  a  stormy 
to-morrow  may  erase  the  brilliant  tints  of  hope  as  well  as 
those  of  nature.  ******  Do  write  quickly,  and  tell  me 
if  I  am  to  prepare.  If  you  continue  to  feel  as  when  you 
last  wrote,  and  still  advise  me  not  to  come,  I  shall  dispose 
of  your  advice  in  the  most  approved  manner,  throw  it  to 
the  winds,  and  embark  armed  and  equipped  for  your  city, 
to  make  my  destined  visit,  and  fulfil  its  conditions  by  fair 
means  or  foul,  and  bring  you  home  in  triumph.  Oh !  we 
shall  have  fine  times.  Oh  dear,  I  blush  to  look  back  upon 
my  sheet  and  see  so  many  Ps  in  it." 

The  lime  of  her  brother's  coming  drew  near.  He  would 
be  with  us  at  nine  in  the  morning.  At  eleven  they  were  to 
start.  I  prepared  all  for  her  departure  with  my  own  hand, 
lest,  should  I  trust  it  to  a  domestic  to  make  the  arrangements, 
she  would  make  some  exertion  herself.  She  sat  by  me  while 
thus  engaged,  relating  playful  anecdotes,  until  I  urged  her  to 
retire  for  the  night.  On  going  into  her  room  an  hour  or  two 
afterwards,  I  was  alarmed  to  find  her  in  a  high  fever.  About 
midnight  she  was  taken  with  bleeding  at  the  lungs.  I  flew  to 
her  father,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  vein  was  opened  in  her 
arm.  To  describe  our  feelings  at  this  juncture  is  impossible. 
We  stood  gazing  at  each  other  in  mute  despair.  After  that 
shock  had  subsided  her  father  retired,  and  I  seated  myself  by 
the  bedside  to  watch  her  slumbers,  and  the  rising  sun  found 
me  still  at  my  post.  She  awoke,  pale,  feeble  and  exhausted 
by  the  debilitating  perspiration  which  attended  her  sleep.  She 
was  surprised  to  find  that  I  had  not  been  in  bed ;  but  when 
she  attempted  to  speak  I  laid  my  finger  upon  her  lips  and 


BIOGRAPHY.          .  05 

desired  her  to  be  silent.  She  understood  my  motive,  and  when 
I  bent  my  head  to  kiss  her,  I  saw  a  tear  upon  her  cheek.  I 
told  her  the  necessity  of  perfect  quiet,  and  the  danger  which 
would  result  from  agitation.  Before  her  brother  came,  she 
desired  to  rise.  I  assisted  her  to  do  so,  and  he  found  her 
quietly  seated  in  her  easy  chair,  perfectly  composed  in  man 
ner,  and  determined  not  to  increase  her  difficulties  by  giving 
way  to  feelings  which  must  at  that  time  have  oppressed  her 
heart.  My  son  was  greatly  shocked  to  find  her  in  this  state. 
I  met  him  and  urged  the  importance  of  perfect  self-possession 
on  his  part,  as  any  sudden  agitation  might  in  her  present 
alarming  state  be  fatal.  Poor  fellow  !  he  subdued  his  feelings 
and  met  her  with  a  cheerful  smile  which  concealed  a  heart 
almost  bursting.with  sorrow.  The  propriety  of  her  taking 
this  jaunt  had  been  discussed  by  her  father  and  myself  for  a 
number  of  weeks.  We  both  thought  her  too  ill  to  leave  home, 
but  her  strong  desire  to  go,  the  impression  she  had  imbibed 
that  travelling  would  greatly  benefit  her  health,  and  the  plead 
ing  of  friends  in  her  behalf,  on  the  ground  that  disappointment 
would  have  a  more  unfavourable  effect  than  the  journey  pos 
sibly  could  have,  all  had  their  effect  in  leading  us  to  consent. 
It  was  possible  it  might  be  of  use  to  her,  although  it  was  at 
best  an  experiment  of  a  doubtful  nature.  But  this  attack  was 
decisive :  yet  caution  must  be  used  in  breaking  the  matter  to 
her  in  her  present  weak  state.  Her  brother  stayed  a  day  or 
two  witn  us,  and  then  returned,  telling  her  thai  when  she 
was  able  to  perform  the  journey,  he  would  come  again  and 
take  her  with  him.  After  he  left  us,  she  soon  regained  her 
usual  strength,  and  in  a  fortnight  her  brother  returned  and 
took  h'jr  to  New  York. 

T'-.o  anxiety  of  Mrs.  Davidson  was  intense  until  she  received 
her  'irst  letter.  It  was  written  from  New  York,  and  in  a 
cheerful  vein,  speaking  encouragingly  of  her  health,  but 
showing  more  solicitude  about  the  health  and  well  being  of 
her  mother  than  of  her  own.  She  continued  to  write  fre 
quently,  giving  animated  accounts  of  scenes  and  persons. 

The  following  extract  relates  to  an  excursion,  in  company 
with  two  of  her  brothers,  into  West  Chester  county,  one  of 
the  pleasantest,  and,  until  recently,  the  least  fashionably 
known,  regions  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson. 

"  At  three  o'clock,  we  were  in  the  Singsing  steamer,  with 
the  water  sparkling  below,  and  the  sun  broiling1  over  head. 
In  the  course  of  our  sail  a  huge  thundercloud  arose,  and  I 


06  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

retreated,  quite  terrified,  to  the  cabin.  But  it  proved  a  re 
freshing  shower.  Oh  !  how  sweet,  how  delightful  the  air 
was!  When  we  landed  at  the  dock,  every  thing  looked  so 
fresh  and  green !  We  mounted  into  a  real  country  vehicle, 
and  rattled  up  the  hill  to  the  village  inn,  a  quiet,  pleasant 
little  house.  I  was  immediately  shown  to  my  room,  where 
I  stayed  until  tea-time,  enjoying  the  prospect  of  a  splendid 
sunset  upon  the  mountains,  and  resting  after  the  fatigues  of 
the  day.  At  seven,  we  drank  tea,  a  meal  strongly  contrasted 
with  the  fashionable  meagre  unsocial  city  tea.  The  table 
was  crowded  with  every  thing  good,  in  the  most  bountiful 
style,  and  served  with  the  greatest  attention  by  the  land 
lord's  pretty  daughter.  I  retired  soon  after  tea,  and  slept 
soundly  \mtil  daybreak.  After  breakfast,  we  sent  for  a  car 
riage  to  take  us  along  the  course  of  the  Croton,  to  see  the 
famous  water-works,  but,  to  our  disappointment,  every  car 
riage  was  engaged,  and  we  could  not  go.  In  the  afternoon, 
a  party  was  made  up  to  go  in  a  boat  across  the  river,  and 
ascend  a  mountain  to  a  singular  lake  upon  its  summit, 
where  all  the  implements  of  fishing  were  provided,  and  a 
collation  was  prepared.  In  short  it  was  a  pic-nic.  To  this 
we  were  invited,  but  on  learning  they  would  not  return 
until  nine  or  ten  in  the  evening,  that  scheme  also  was  aban 
doned.  Towards  night  we  walked  around  the  village, 
looked  at  the  tunnel,  and  visited  the  ice-cream  man,  and  in 
spite  of  my  various  disappointments,  I  retired  quite  happy 
and  pleased  with  my  visit.  The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and 
we  proposed  going  to  the  little  Dutch  church,  a  few  miles 
distant,  and  hearing  the  service  performed  in  Dutch ;  but 
lo !  on  drawing  aside  my  curtains  in  the  morning,  it  rained, 
and  we  were  obliged  to  content  ourselves  as  well  as  we 
could  until  the  rain  was  over.  After  dinner  the  sun  again 
peeped  out,  as  if  for  our  special  gratification,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  a  huge  country  wagon,  with  a  leathern  top  and 
two  sleek  horses,  drew  up  to  the  door.  We  mounted  into 
it,  and  away  we  rattled  over  the  most  beautiful  country  I 
ever  saw.  Oh  !  it  was  magnificent !  Every  now  and  then 
tne  view  of  the  broad  Hudson,  with  its  distant  hills,  and  the 
clouds  resting  on  their  summits,  burst  upon  our  view.  Now 
we  would  ascend  a  lofty  hill,  clothed  with  forests,  and 
verdure  of  the  most  brilliant  hues;  now  dash  down  into  a 
deep  ravine  with  a  stream  winding  and  gurgling  along  its 
bed,  with  its  tiny  waves  rushing  over  the  wheel  of  some 
rustic  mill,  embosomed  in  its  shade  and  solitude.  Every 
now  and  then  the  gable  end  of  some  low  Dutch  building 
would  present  itself  before  us,  smiling  in  its  peaceful  still 
ness,  and  conveying  to  the  mind  a  perfect  picture  of  rural 
simplicity  and  comfort,  although,  perhaps,  of  ignorance.  At 
'ength  we  paused  upon  the  summit  of  a  gentle  hill,  and 


BIOGRAPHY.  97 

judge  of  my  delight  when  I  beheld  below  me  the  old  Dutch 
church,  the  quiet,  secluded,  beautiful  little  churchyard,  the 
running  stream,  the  path,  and  the  rustic  bridge,  the  ever 
memorable  scene  of  Ichabod's  adventure  with  the  headless 
horseman.  There,  thought  I,  rushed  the  poor  pedagogue, 
his  knees  cramped  up  to  his  saddle-bow  with  fear,  his  hands 
grasping  his  horse's  mane,  with  convulsive  energy,  in  the 
hope  that  the  running  stream  might  arrest  the  progress  of 
his  fearful  pursuer,  and  allow  him  to  pass  in  safety.  Vain 
hope!  scarce  had  he  reached  the  bridge  when  he  heard, 
rattling  behind  him,  the  hoofs  of  his  fiendish  companion. 
The  church  seemed  in  a  blaze  to  his  bewildered  eyes,  and 
urging  on,  on,  he  turned  to  look  once  more,  when,  horror 
of  horrors  !  the  head,  the  fearful  head,  was  in  the  act  of  de 
scending  upon  his  devoted  shoulders.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  I  never 
laughed  so  in  my  life.  Well,  we  rode  on  through  the  scene 
of  poor  Andre's  capture,  and  dashed  along  the  classic  valley 
of  Sleepy  Hollow.  After  a  long  and  delightful  drive,  we 
returned  in  time  for  tea.  After  tea  we  were  invited  into 
Mrs.  F.'s  parlour,  where,  after  a  short  time,  were  collected 
quite  a  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen.  At  nine  we  were 
served  with  ice-cream,  wine,  &c.  I  retired  very  much 
pleased  and  very  much  fatigued.  Early  in  the  morning  we 
rose  with  the  most  brilliant  sun,  breakfasted,  mounted  once 
more  into  the  wagon,  and  rattled  off  to  the  dock.  Oh !  that 
I  could  describe  to  you  how  fresh  and  sweet  the  air  was.  I 
felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  open  my  mouth  wide  and  inhale  it. 
We  gave  M.  our  parting  kisses,  and  soon  found  ourselves 
once  more,  after  this  charming  episode,  approaching  the 
mighty  city.  We  had  a  delightful  sail  of  two  or  three 
hours,  and  again  rode  up  to  dear  aunt  M.'s,  where  all 
seemed  glad  at  my  return.  I  spent  the  remainder  of  the 
day  in  resting  and  reading." 

In  these  artless  epistles,  continues  Mrs.  Davidson,  there  is 
much  of  character,  for  who  could  imagine  this  constant  cheer 
fulness,  this  almost  forgetful  ness  of  self,  these  affectionate 
endeavours,  by  her  sweetly  playful  account  of  all  her  employ 
ments  while  absent,  to  dispel  the  grief  which  she  knew  was 
preying  upon  my  mind  on  account  of  her  illness?  Who 
could  conceive  the  pains  she  took  to  conceal  from  me  the 
ravages  which  disease  was  daily  making  upon  her  form  ? 
She  was  never  heard  to  complain,  and  in  her  letters  to  me, 
she  hardly  alludes  to  her  illness.  The  friends  to  whom  I  had 
entrusted  her,  during  her  short  period  of  absence,  sometimes 
foared  that  she  would  never  bo  able  to  reach  home  again. 
Her  brother  told  me,  but  not  until  long  after  her  return,  that 


98  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

on  her  way  home  she  really  fainted  several  times  from  debil 
ity — and  that  he  took  her  from  the  boat  to  the  carriage  as  he 
would  have  done  an  infant. 

On  the  sixth  of  July,  I  once  more  folded  to  my  heart  this 
cherished  object  of  my  solicitude ;  but  oh,  the  change  which 
three  short  weeks  had  wrought  in  her  appearance  struck  me 
forcibly.  I  was  so  wholly  unprepared  for  it,  that  I  nearly 
fainted.  After  the  excitement  of  the  meeting  (which  she  had 
evidently  summoned  all  her  fortitude  to  bear  with  composure) 
was  over,  she  sat  down  by  me,  and  passing  her  thin  arm 
around  my  waist,  said,  "  Oh,  my  dear  mamma,  I  am  home 
again  at  last ;  I  now  feel  as  if  I  never  wanted  to  leave  you 
again ;  I  have  had  a  delightful  visit,  my  friends  were  all  glad 
to  see  me,  and  have  watched  over  me  with  all  the  kindness 
and  care  which  affection  could  dictate,  but  oh,  there  is  no 
place  like  home,  and  no  care  like  a  mother's  care  ;  there  is 
something  in  the  very  air  of  home,  and  in  the  sound  of  your 
voice,  mother,  which  makes  me  happier  just  now,  than  all  the 
scenes  which  I  have  passed  through  in  my  little  jaunt ;  oh, 
after  all,  home  is  the  only  place  for  a  person  as  much  out  of 
health  as  I  am."  I  strove  to  suppress  my  emotions,  while  I 
marked  her  pale  cheek  and  altered  countenance.  She  fixed 
her  penetrating  eyes  upon  my  face,  kissed  me,  and  drawing 
back  to  take  a  more  full  survey  of  the  effects  which  pain  and 
anxiety  had  wrought  in  me,  kissed  me  again  and  again,  say 
ing,  "  she  knew  I  had  deeply  felt  the  want  of  her  society,  and 
now  once  more  at  home,  she  should  so  prize  its  comforts  as 
to  be  in  no  haste  to  leave  it  again."  She  was  much  wasted, 
and  could  hardly  walk  from  one  room  to  another;  her  cough 
was  very  distressing ;  she  had  no  pain,  but  a  languor  and 
depression  of  spirits,  foreign  to  her  nature.  She  struggled 
against  this  debility,  and  called  up  all  the  energies  of  her 
mind  to  overcome  it ;  her  constant  reply  to  inquiries  about  her 
health,  by  the  friends  who  called,  was  the  same  as  formerly, 
"  Well,  quite  well — mother  calls  me  an  invalid,  but  I  feel  well." 
Yet,  to  me,  when  alone,  she  talked  more  freely  of  her  symp 
toms,  and  I  thought  I  could  discern  from  her  manner,  that 
she  had  apprehensions  as  to  the  result.  I  had  often  endea 
voured  to  acquire  firmness  sufficient  to  tell  her  what  was  her 
situation,  but  she  seemed  so  studiously  to  avoid  the  disclosure, 
that  my  resolution  had  hitherto  been  unequal  to  the  task.  Bu* 
I  was  much  surprised  one  day,  not  long  after  her  return  from 
New  York,  by  her  asking  me  to  tell  her,  without  reserve,  my 


BIOGRAPHY.  99 

opinion  of  her  state.  The  question  wrung  my  very  heart ;  I 
was  wholly  unprepared  for  it,  and  it  was  put  in  so  solemn  a 
manner,  that  I  could  not  evade  it,  were  I  disposed  to  do  so. 
I  knew  with  what  strong  affection  she  clung  to  life,  and  the 
objects  and  friends  which  endeared  it  to  her;  I  knew  how 
bright  the  world  upon  which  she  was  just  entering  appeared 
to  her  young  fancy,  what  glowing  pictures  she  had  drawn  of 
future  usefulness  and  happiness.  I  was  now  called  upon,  at 
one  blow,  to  crush  these  hopes,  to  destroy  the  delightful 
visions,  which  had  hovered  around  her  from  her  cradle  until 
this  very  period ;  it  would  be  cruel  and  wrong  to  deceive  her , 
in  vain  I  attempted  a  reply  to  her  direct  and  solemn  appeal, 
and  my  voice  grew  husky  ;  several  times  I  essayed  to  speak, 
but  the  words  died  away  on  my  lips ;  I  could  only  fold  her  to 
my  heart  in  silence,  imprint  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead,  and 
leave  the  room  to  avoid  agitating  her  with  feelings  I  had  no 
power  to  repress. 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  to  her  brother  in  New 
York,  dated  a  short  time  after  this  incident  occurred,  and 
which  I  never  saw  until  after  her  departure,  will  best  portray 
her  own  feelings  at  this  period. 

"  As  to  my  health  at  present,  I  feel  as  well  as  when  you 
were  here,  and  the  cough  is  much  abated,  but  it  is  evident 
to  me,  that  mother  thinks  me  not  so  well  as  before  I  left 
home;  I  do  not  myself  believe  that  1  have  gained  any  thing 
from  the  visit,  and  in  a  case  like  mine,  standing  still  is  cer 
tainly  loss,  but  I  feel  no  worse.  However,  I  have  learned 
that  feelings  are  no  criterion  of  disease.  Now,  brother,  I 

want  to  know  what  Dr.  M discovered,  or  thought  he 

discovered,  in  his  examination  of  my  lungs;  father  says  no 
thing—mother,  when  I  ask,  cannot  tell  me,  and  looks  so 
sad  !  Now,  I  ask  you,  hoping  to  be  answered.  If  you  have 
not  heard  the  doctor  say,  I  wish  you  would  ask  him,  ana 
write  to  me.  If  it  is  more  unfavourable  than  I  anticipate,  it 
is  best  I  should  know  now;  if  it  is  contrary,  how  much  pain 
and  restlessness  and  suspicion,  will  be  spared  me  by  the 
knowledge.  As  to  myself,  I  feel  and  know  that  my  health 
is  in  a  most  precarious  state,  that  the  disease  we  dread  has 
perhaps  fastened  upon  me,  but  I  have  an  impression  that  if 
I  make  use  of  the  proper  remedies  and  exercise,  I  may  yet 
recover  a  tolerable  degree  of  health.  I  do  not  feel  that  my 
case  is  incurable ;  I  wish  to  know  if  I  am  wrong.  I  have 
rode  on  horseback  twice  since  you  left  me;  dear,  dear 
brother,  what  a  long  egotistic  letter  I  have  written  you  !  do 
forgive  me,  my  heart  was  full,  and  I  felt  that  I  must  unbur 
den  it.  I  wish  you  would  write  me  a  long  letter.  Do  not 


100  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


let  dear  mother  know  at  present  the  questions  I  have  asked 
yoUt»        ******* 

From  this  period  she  grew  more  thoughtful.  There  was 
even  a  solemnity  in  her  manner  which  I  never  before  observ 
ed.  Her  mind,  as  I  mentioned  before,  had  been  much  per 
plexed  by  some  doctrinal  points.  To  solve  these  doubts  I 
asked  if  I  should  not  send  for  some  clergyman.  She  said  no. 
She  had  heard  many  discussions  on  these  subjects,  and  they 
nad  always  served  rather  to  confuse  than  to  convince  her. 
"  I  would  rather  converse  with  you  alone,  mother."  She 
then  asked  me  if  I  thought  it  essential  to  salvation  that  she 
should  adopt  any  particular  creed.  I  felt  that  I  was  an  ineffi 
cient,  perhaps  a  blind  guide,  yet  it  was  my  duty  not  only  to 
impart  consolation,  but  to  explain  to  her  my  own  views  of  the 
truth.  I  replied  that  I  considered  faith  and  repentance  only, 
to  be  essential  to  salvation  ;  that  it  was  very  desirable  that 
her  mind  should  be  settled  upon  some  particular  mode  of  faith  ; 
but  that  I  did  not  think  it  absolutely  necessary  that  she  should 
adopt  the  tenets  of  any  established  church,  and  again  recom 
mended  an  attentive  perusal  of  the  New  Testament.  She  ex 
pressed  her  firm  belief  in  the  divinity  of  Christ.  The  perfec 
tions  of  his  character,  its  beauty  and  holiness  excited  her 
admiration,  while  the  benevolence  which  prompted  the  sacri 
fice  of  himself  to  save  a  lost  world,  filled  her  with  the  most 
enthusiastic  gratitude.  It  was  a  source  of  regret  that  so  much 
of  her  time  had  been  spent  in  light  reading,  and  that  her 
writings  had  not  been  of  a  more  decidedly  religious  character. 
She  lamented  that  she  had  not  chosen  scriptural  subjects  for 
the  exercise  of  her  poetical  talent,  and  said,  "  Mamma,  should 
God  spare  my  life,  my  time  and  talents  shall  for  the  future  be 
devoted  to  a  higher  and  holier  end."  She  felt  that  she  had 
trifled  with  the  gifts  of  Providence,  and  her  self-condemnation 
and  grief  were  truly  affecting.  "And  must  I  die  so  young? 
My  career  of  usefulness  hardly  commenced  ?  Oh  !  mother, 
how  sadly  have  I  trifled  with  the  gifts  of  heaven  !  What  have 
I  done  which  can  benefit  one  human  being?"  I  folded  her 
to  my  heart,  and  endeavoured  to  soothe  the  tumult  of  her  feel 
ings,  bade  her  remember  her  dutiful  conduct  as  a  daughter, 
her  affectionate  bearing  as  a  sister  and  a  friend,  and  the  con 
solation  which  she  had  afforded  me  through  years  of  suffering ! 
"  Oh  my  mother,"  said  she,  "  I  have  been  reflecting  much  of 
late  upon  this  sad  waste  of  intellect,  and  had  marked  out  for 
myself  a  course  of  usefulness  which,  should  God  spare  nw 


BIOGRAPHY.  101 

life — "  Here  her  emotions  became  too  powerful  to  proceed. 
At  times  she  suffered  much  anxiety  with  regard  to  her  eternal 
welfare,  and  deeply  lamented  her  want  of  faithfulness  in  the 
performance  of  her  religious  duties ;  complained  of  coldness 
and  formality  in  her  devotional  exercises,  and  entreated  me 
to  pray  with  and  for  her.  At  other  times,  her  hopes  of  hea 
ven  would  be  bright,  her  faith  unwavering  and  her  devotion 
fervent.  Yet  it  was  evident  to  me,  that  she  still  cherished  the 
hope  that  her  life  might  be  prolonged.  Her  mother  had  lin 
gered  for  years  in  a  state  equally  hopeless,  and  during  that 
period  had  been  enabled  to  attend  to  the  moral  and  religious 
culture  of  her  little  family.  Might  not  the  same  kind  Provi 
dence  prolong  Tier  life  1  It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  a  de 
scription  of  those  seasons  of  deep  and  thrilling  interest.  God 
alone  knows  in  what  way  my  own  weak  frame  was  sustained. 
I  felt  that  she  had  been  renovated  and  purified  by  Divine 
Grace,  and  to  see  her  thus  distressed  when  I  thought  that  all 
the  consolations  of  the  Gospel  ought  to  be  hers,  gave  my 
heart  a  severe  pang. 

"  Many  of  our  friends  now  were  of  opinion  that  a  change  of 
climate  might  benefit,  perhaps  restore  her.  Heretofore,  when 
the  suggestion  had  been  made,  she  shrunk  from  the  idea  of 
leaving  her  home  for  a  distant  clime.  Now  her  anxiety  to  try 
the  effect  of  a  change  was  great.  I  felt  that  it  would  be  vain, 
although  I  was  desirous  that  nothing  should  be  left  untried. 
Feeble  as  she  now  was,  the  idea  of  her  resigning  the  comforts 
of  home,  and  being  subject  to  the  fatigues  of  travelling  in  public 
conveyances,  was  a  dreadful  one,  and  yet,  if  there  was  a  ra 
tional  prospect  of  prolonging  her  life  by  these  means,  I  was 
anxious  to  give  them  a  trial.  Dr.  Davidson,  after  much  de 
liberation  on  the  subject,  called  counsel.  Dr. came, 

and  when,  after  half  an  hour's  pleasant  and  playful  conversa 
tion  with  Margaret,  he  joined  us  in  the  parlour,  oh !  how  my 
poor  heart  trembled.  I  hung  upon  the  motions  of  his  lips  as 
if  my  own  life  depended  on  what  they  might  utter.  At  length 
he  spoke,  and  I  felt  as  if  an  icebolt  had  passed  through  my 
heart.  He  had  never  thought,  though  he  had  known  her 
many  years,  that  a  change  of  climate  would  benefit  her.  She 
had  lived  beyond  his  expectations  many  months,  even  years; 
and  now  he  was  convinced,  were  we  to  attempt  to  take  her  to 
a  southern  climate,  that  she  would  die  on  the  passage.  Make 
it  as  pleasant  as  possible  for  her  at  home,  was  his  advice.  He 
thought  that  a  few  months  must  terminate  her  life.  She 


102  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

knew  that  we  had  confidence  in  the  opinion  of  this,  her  favourite 
physician.  When  I  had  gained  firmness  enough  to  answer 
her  questions,  I  again  entered  the  room  arid  found  her  com 
posed,  though  she  had  evidently  been  strongly  agitated,  and 
had  not  brought  her  mind  to  hear  her  doom.  Never,  oh ! 
never  to  the  latest  hour  of  my  life,  shall  I  forget  the  look  she 
gave  me  when  I  met  her.  What  a  heart-rending  task  was 
mine  !  I  performed  it  as  gently  as  possible.  I  said  the  doctor 
thought  her  strength  unequal  to  the  fatigue  of  the  journey ; 
that  he  was  not  so  great  an  advocate  for  change  of  climate  as 
many  persons  ;  that  he  had  known  many  cases  in  which  he 
thought  it  injurious,  and  his  best  advice  was,  that  we  should 
again  ward  off  the  severity  of  the  winter  by  creating  an  at 
mosphere  within  our  house.  She  mildly  acquiesced,  and  the 
subject  was  dropped  altogether.  She  sometimes  read,  and  fre 
quently,  from  mere  habit,  held  a  book  in  her  hand  when  un 
able  to  digest  its  contents,  and  within  the  book  there  usually 
rested  a  piece  of  paper,  upon  which  she  occasionally  marked 
the  reflections  which  arose  in  her  mind,  either  in  poetry  or 
prose." 

We  here  interrupt  the  narrative  of  Mrs.  Davidson,  to  insert 
a  copy  of  verses  addressed  by  Margaret  to  her  brother,  a 
young  officer  in  the  army,  and  stationed  at  a  frontier  post  in 
the  far  west.  They  were  written  in  September,  about  two 
months  before  her  death,  and  are  characterized  throughout  by 
her  usual  beauty  of  thought  and  tenderness  of  feeling  ;  but  the 
last  verse,  which  alludes  to  the  fading  verdure,  and  falling 
leaf,  and  gathering  .melancholy,  and  lifeless  quiet  of  the  sea 
son,  as  typical  of  her  own  blighted  youth  and  approaching 
dissolution,  has  something  in  it  peculiarly  solemn  and  affecting. 

TO  MY  SOLDIER  BROTHER  IN  THE  FAR  WEST.* 

'Tis  an  autumn  eve,  and  the  tints  of  day 

From  the  west  are  slowly  stealing, 
And  clouds  round  the  couch  of  the  setting  sun 

Are  gently  and  silently  wheeling. 
'Tis  the  scene  and  the  hour  for  the  soul  to  bathe 

In  its  own  deep  springs  of  feeling, 
And  my  thoughts,  from  their  galling  bonds  set  free, 
Have  fled  to  the  "  far,  far  west"  to  thee ! 

And  perchance,  'mid  the  toils  of  thy  varied  life, 

Thou  also  art  pausing  awhile, 
To  behold  how  beautiful  all  things  look 

In  the  sunlight's  passing  smile  ; 


*  This  copy  of  verses  has  come  to  hand  since  the  publication  of  the 
first  edition  of  this  memoir. 


BIOGRAPHY.  103 

And  perchance  recollections  of  kindred  and  home 

Thy  cares  for  a  moment  beguile  ; 
Thy  thoughts  have  been  mine  in  their  passage  to  thce, 
And  though  distant,  far  distant,  our  spirits  are  iron  ! 

I  know  thou  art  dreaming  of  home, 

And  the  dear  ones  sheltered  there  ; 
Of  thy  mother,  pale  with  the  pain  of  years, 

And  thy  sire  with  his  silvered  hair ; 
And  with  them  blend  thoughts  of  thy  boyish  years, 

When  the  world  looked  all  so  fair, 
When  thy  cheek  flushed  high  at  the  voice  of  praise, 

And  thy  breast  was  unknown  to  care ; 
And  while  memory  burns  her  torch  for  thee, 
I  know  that  these  thoughts  and  these  dreams  will  be  ! 

But  when,  in  the  shade  of  the  autumn  wood, 

Thy  wandering  footsteps  stray, 
When  yellow  leaves  and  perishing  buds 

Are  scattered  in  thy  way ; 
When  all  around  thee  breathes  of  rest, 

And  sadness  and  decay — 
With  the  drooping  flower,  and  the  falling  tree, 
Oh !  brother,  blend  thy  thoughts  of  me  ! 

"The  following  fragments,"  continues  Mrs.  Davidson, 
u  appear  to  be  the  very  breathings  of  her  soul  during  the  last 
few  weeks  of  her  life,  written  in  pencil,  in  a  hand  so  weak 
and  tremulous  that  I  could  with  difficulty  decipher  them  word 
by  word  with  the  aid  of  a  strong  magnifying  glass. 

"  Consumption  !  child  of  woe,  thy  blighting  breath 
Marks  all  that 's  fair  and  lovely  for  thine  own, 


And,  sweeping  o'er  the  silver  chords  of  life, 
Blends  ail  their  music  in  one  deathlike  tone." 


1838. 


"  What  strange,  what  mystic  things  we  are, 

With  spirits  longing  to  outlive  the  stars. 

********    but  even  in  decay 

Hasting  to  meet  our  brethren  in  the  dust. 

As  one  small  dewdrop  runs,  another  drops 
To  sink  unnoticed  in  the  world  of  waves." 

44  O  it  is  sad  to  feel  that  when  a  few  short  years 
Of  life  are  past,  we  shall  lie  down,  unpitied 
And  unknown,  amid  a  careless  world  ; 
That  youth  and  age  and  revelry  and  grief 
Above  our  heads  shall  pass,  and  we  alone 
Shall  sleep !  alone  shall  be  as  we  have  been, 
No  more. 

These  are  unfinished  fragments,  a  part  of  which  I  could 
not  decipher  at  all.  I  insert  them  to  give  an  idea  of  the  daily 
operations  of  her  mind  during  the  whole  of  this  long  summer 
of  suffering.  Her  gentle  spirit  never  breathed  a  murmur  or 


104  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

complaint.  I  think  she  was  rarely  heard  to  express  even  a 
feeling  of  weariness.  But  here  are  a  few  more  of  those  out 
pourings  of  the  heart.  I  copy  these  little  effusions  with  all 
their  errors ;  there  is  a  sacredness  about  them  which  forbids 
the  change  even  of  a  single  letter.  The  first  of  the  fragments 
which  follow  was  written  on  a  Sabbath  evening  in  autumn, 
not  many  weeks  before  her  death. 

It  is  autumn,  the  season  of  rapid  decay, 

When  the  flow'rets  of  summer  are  hasting  away 

From  the  breath  of  the  wintry  blast, 
And  the  buds  which  oped  to  the  gazer's  eye, 
And  the  glowing  tints  of  the  gorgeous  sky, 
And  the  forests  robed  in  their  emerald  dye, 

With  their  loveliest  blossoms  have  past. 

'Tis  eve,  and  the  brilliant  sunset  hue 
Is  replaced  by  a  sky  of  the  coldest  blue, 

Untouched  by  a  floating  cloud. 
And  all  nature  is  silent,  calm  and  serene, 
As  though  sorrow  and  suffering  never  had  been 
On  this  beautiful  earth  abroad. 

'T  is  a  Sabbath  eve,  and  the  longing  soul 
Is  charm'd  by  its  quiet  and  gentle  control 

From  each  wayward  and  wandering  thought, 
And  it  longs  from  each  meaner  affection  to  move. 
And  it  soareth  the  troubles  of  earth  above 
To  bathe  in  that  fountain  of  light  and  love, 

Whence  our  purest  enjoyments  are  caught. 
1838. 

But  winter,  O*  what  shall  thy  greeting  be 

From  our  waters,  our  earth,  and  our  sky  ? 
What  welcoming  strains  shall  arise  for  thee 

As  thy  chariot- wheels  draw  nigh  ? 
Alas  !  the  fresh  flowers  of  the  spirit  decay 

As  thy  cold,  cold  steps  advance, 
And  even  young  Fancy  is  shrinking  away 

From  the  chill  of  thy  terrible  glance  ; 
And  Hope  with  her  mantle  of  rainbow  hue 

Hath  fled  from  thy  freezing  eye, 
And  her  bright  train  of  visions  are  melting  in  air 

As  thy  shivering  blasts  sweep  by. 
Thy        ****** 
Oct.  1838. 

THE  NATURE  OF  THE  SOUL. 

The  spirit,  what  is  it  ?     Mysterious,  sublime, 

Undying,  unchanging,  for  ever  the  same, 
It  bounds  lightly  athwart  the  dark  billows  of  time, 

And  moves  on  unscorched  by  its  heavenly  flame. 

Man  owns  thee  and  feels  thee,  and  knows  thee  divine; 

He  feels  thou  art  his,  and  thou  never  canst  die  ; 
He  believes  thee  a  gem  from  the  Maker's  pure  shrine, 

A  portion  of  puri'y  holy  and  high. 


BIOGRAPHY.  105 

'Tis  around  him,  within  him,  the  source  of  his  life, 
Yet  too  weak  to  contemplate  its  glory  and  might ; 

He  trembling  shrinks  back  to  dull  earth's  humble  strife, 
And  leaves  the  pure  atmosphere  glowing  with  light. 

Thou  spark  from  the  Deity's  radiant  throne, 
I  knowthee,  yet  shrink  from  thy  greatness  and  power; 

Thou  art  mine  in  thy  splendour,  I  feel  thee  my  own, 
Yet  behold  me  as  frail  as  the  light  summer  flower. 

I  strive  in  my  weakness  to  gaze  on  thy  might, 
To  trace  out  thy  wanderings  through  ages  to  come, 

Till  like  birds  on  the  sea,  all  exhausted,  at  length 
I  flutter  back  weary  to  earth  as  my  home. 

Like  a  diamond  when  laid  in  a  rough  case  of  clay, 
Which  may  crumble  and  wear  from  the  pure  gem  enclosed, 

But  which  ne'er  can  be  lit  by  one  tremulous  ray 
From  the  glory-crown' d  star  in  its  dark  case  reposed. 

As  the  cool  weather  advanced,  her  decline  became  more 
visible,  and  she  devoted  more  and  more  of  her  time  to  search 
ing  the  Scriptures,  self-examination  and  subjects  for  reflection, 
and  questions  which  were  to  be  solved  by  evidences  deduced 
from  the  Bible.  I  found  them  but  a  few  days  before  her 
death,  in  the  sacred  volume  which  lay  upon  the  table,  at  which 
she  usually  sat  during  her  hours  of  retirement.  She  had  been 
searching  the  holy  book,  and  overcome  by  the  exertion,  rang 
the  bell,  which  summoned  me  to  her  side,  for  no  person  but 
myself  was  admitted  during  the  time  set  apart  for  her  devo 
tional  exercises. 

Subjects  for  reflection. 

1st.  The  uniform  usefulness  of  Christ's  miracles. 

2d.  The  manner  in  which  he  overthrows  all  the  exalted 
hopes  which  the  Jews  entertain  of  a  temporal  kingdom,  and 
strives  to  explain  to  them  the  entire  spirituality  of  the  one 
he  has  come  to  erect. 

3d.  The  deep  and  unchangeable  love  for  man,  which  must 
have  impelled  Christ  to  resist  so  many  temptations  and 
endure  so  many  sufferings,  even  death,  that  truth  might 
enlighten  the  world,  and  heaven  and  immortality  become 
realities  instead  of  dreams. 

4th.  The  general  thoughtlessness  of  man  with  regard  to 
his  greatest,  his  only  interest. 

5th.  Christ's  cons'tant  submission  to  the  will  of  his  Father, 
and  the  necessity  of  our  imitating  the  meek  and  calm  and 
gentle  qualities  of  his  character,  together  with  that  firmness 
of  purpose  and  confidence  in  God  which  sustained  him  to 
the  end. 

6th.  The  necessity  of  so  living,  that  we  need  not  fear  to 
•think  each  day  our  last. 
9 


106  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


7th.  The  necessity  of  religion  to  soothe  and  support  the 
mind  on  the  bed  of  sickness. 

8th.  Self-examination. 

9th.  Is  Christ  mentioned  expressly  in  Scripture  as  equal 
with  God  and  a  part  1 

10th.  Is  there  sufficient  ground  for  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity  1 

llth.  Did  Christ  come  as  a  prophet  and  reformer  of  the 
world,  or  as  a  sacrifice  for  our  sins,  to  appease  the  wrath 
of  his  Father  1 

12th.  Is  any  thing  said  of  infant  baptism  1 

Written  in  November,  1838. 

About  three  weeks  before  her  departure,  I  one  morning 
found  her  in  the  parlour,  where,  as  I  before  observed,  she 
spent  a  portion  of  her  time  in  retirement.  I  saw  that  she  had 
been  much  agitated,  and  seemed  weary.  I  seated  myself  by 
her  and  rested  her  head  on  my  bosom,  while  I  gently  pressed 
my  hand  upon  her  throbbing  temples  to  soothe  the  agitation 
of  her  nerves.  She  kissed  me  again  and  again,  and  seemed 
as  if  she  feared  to  trust  her  voice  to  speak  lest  her  feelings 
should  overcome  her.  As  I  returned  her  caresses,  she  silently 
put  a  folded  paper  in  my  hand.  I  began  to  open  it,  when  she 
gently  laid  her  hand  on  mine,  and  said  in  a  low  tremulous 
tone,  "  Not  now,  dear  mother !  I  then  led  her  back  to  her 
room,  and  placed  her  upon  the  sofa,  and  retired  to  examine 
the  paper.  It  contained  the  following  lines. 

TO  MY  MOTHER. 

OH  mother,  would  the  power  were  mine 
To  wakft  the  strain  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 

And  breathe  each  trembling  new-born  thought, 
Within  thy  fondly  listening  ear, 

As  when  in  days  of  health  and  glee, 

My  hopes  and  fancies  wander'd  free. 

But,  mother,  now  a  shade  has  past 

Athwart  my  brightest  visions  here, 
A  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  has  wrapt 

The  remnant  of  my  brief  career ! 
No  song,  no  echo  can  I  win, — 
The  sparkling  fount  has  died  within. 

The  torch  of  earthly  hope  burns  dim, 

And  Fancy  spreads  her  wings  no  more ; 
And  oh,  how  vain  and  trivial  seem 

The  pleasures  that  I  prized  before. 
My  soul,  with  trembling  steps  and  slow, 

Is  struggling  on  through  doubt  and  strife : 
Oh  !  may  it  prove,  as  time  rolls  on, 

The  pathway  to  eternal  life  — 
Then,  when  my  cares  and  fears  are  o'er, 
I  '11  sing  thee  as  in  days  of  yore 


BIOGRAPHY.  107 

I  said  that  hope  had  pass'd  from  earth  : 
'T  was  but  to  fold  her  wings  in  Heaven, 

To  whisper  of  the  soul's  new  birth, 
Of  sinners  saved  and  sins  forgiven. 

When  mine  are  wash'd  in  tears  away, 
Then  shall  my  spirit  swell  my  lay. 

When  God  shall  guide  my  soul  above, 
By  the  soft  cords  of  heavenly  love, 
When  the  vain  cares  of  earth  depart, 
And  tuneful  voices  swell  my  heart, 
Then  shall  each  word,  each  note  I  raise, 
Burst  forth  in  pealing  hymns  of  praise, 
And  all  not  offered  at  His  shrine, 
Dear  mother,  I  will  place  on  thine. 

It  was  long  before  I  could  gain  sufficient  composure  to  re 
turn  to  her.  When  I  did  so,  I  found  her  sweetly  calm,  and 
she  greeted  me  with  a  smile  so  full  of  affection,  that  I  shall 
cherish  the  recollection  of  its  brightness  until  my  latest  breath. 
It  was  the  last  piece  she  ever  wrote,  except  a  paraphrase  of  four 
lines  of  the  hymn,  "  I  would  not  live  always,"  which  was 
written  within  the  last  week  of  her  life. 

"  I  would  not  live  always  thus  fettered  by  sin, 
Temptation  without,  and  corruption  within, 
With  the  soul  ever  dimmed  by  its  hopes  and  its  fears, 
And  the  heart's  holy  flame  ever  struggling  through  tears." 


Thus  far  in  preparing  this  memoir,  we  have  availed  our 
selves  almost  entirely  of  copious  memoranda,  furnished  us  at 
our  own  request  by  Mrs.  Davidson ;  but  when  the  narrator 
approached  the  closing  scene  of  this  most  affecting  story,  the 
heart  of  the  mother  gave  out,  and  she  found  herself  totally  in 
adequate  to  the  task.  Fortunately,  Dr.  Davidson  had  retained 
a  copy  of  a  letter,  written  by  her  in  the  midst  of  her  affliction 
to  Miss  Sedgwick,  in  reply  to  an  epistle  from  that  lady,  ex 
pressive  of  the  kindest  sympathy,  and  making  some  inquiries 
relative  to  the  melancholy  event.  We  subjoin  that  letter  en 
tire,  for  never  have  we  read  any  thing  of  the  kind  more  truiv 
eloquent  or  deeply  affecting. 

"  Saratoga  Springs. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Miss  Sedgwick,  she  is  an  angel  now ;  calm 
ly  and  sweetly  she  sunk  to  her  everlasting  rest,  as  a  babe 
gently  slumbers  on  its  mother's  bosom.  I  thank  my  Father 
in  heaven  that  I  was  permitted  to  watch  over  her,  and  I 
trust  administer  to  her  comfort  during  her  illness.  I  know, 
my  friend,  you  will  not  expect  either  a  very  minute  or"  con 
nected  detail  of  the  circumstances  preceding  her  change 


108  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


from  me  at  this  time,  for  I  am  indeed 'bowed  down  with 
sorrow.  I  feel  that  I  am  truly  desolate,  how  desolate  I  will 
not  attempt  to  describe.  Yet  in  the  depth  of  grief  I  have 
consolations  of  the  purest,  most  soothing  and  exalted  na 
ture.  I  would  not,  indeed  I  could  not  murmur,  but  rather 
bless  my  God  that  he  has  in  the  plenitude  of  his  goodness 
made  me,  even  for  a  brief  space  on  earth,  the  honoured 
mother  of  such  an  angel.  Oh  my  dear  Miss  Sedgwick,  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  her  during  the  last  two  months  of 
her  brief  sojourn  with  us.  Her  meekness  and  patience,  and 
her  even  cheerful  bearing  were  unexampled.  But  when  she 
was  assured  that  all  the  tender  and  endearing  ties  which 
bound  her  to  earth  were  about  to  be  severed,  when  she  saw 
that  life  and  all  its  bright  visions  were  fading  from  her  eyes 
— that  she  was  standing  at  the  entrance  of  the  dark  valley 
which  must  be  traversed  in  her  way  to  the  eternal  world, 
the  struggle  was  great,  but  brief— she  caught  the  hem  of 
her  Saviour's  robe  and  meekly  bowed  to  the  mandate  of 
her  God.  Since  the  beginning  of  August,  I  have  watched 
this  tender  blossom  with  intense  anxiety,  and  marked  her 
decline  with  a  breaking  heart ;  and  although  from  that  time 
until  the  period  of  her  departure,  I  never  spent  a  whole 
night  in  my  bed,  my  excitement  was  so  strong  that  I  was 
unconscious  of  the  want  of  sleep.  Oh,  my  dear  madam,  the 
whole  course  of  her  decline  was  so  unlike  any  other  death 
bed  scene  I  ever  witnessed ;  there  was  nothing  of  the  gloom 
of  a  sick  chamber;  a  charm  was  in  and  around  her  ;  a  holy 
light  seemed  to  pervade  every  thing  belonging  to  her. 
There  was  a  sacredness,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  which  seem 
ed  to  tell  the  presence  of  the  Divinity.  Strangers  felt  it,  all 
acknowledged  it.  Very  few  were  admitted  to  her  sick  room, 
but  those  few  left  it  with  an  elevation  of  heart  new,  solemn, 
and  delightful.  She  continued  to  ride  out  as  long  as  the 
weather  was  mild,  and  even  after  she  became  too  weak  to 
walk  she  frequently  desired  to  be  taken  into  the  parlour, 
and  when  there,  with  all  her  little  implements  of  drawing 
and  writing,  her  books,  and  even  her  little  work-box  and 
basket  beside  her,  she  seemed  to  think  that  by  these  little 
attempts  at  her  usual  employments  she  could  conceal  from 
me,  for  she  saw  my  heart  was  breaking,  the  ravages  of  dis 
ease  and  her  consequent  debility.  The  New  Testament  was 
her  daily  study,  and  a  portion  of  every  day  was  spent  in 
private  in  self-examination  and  prayer.  My  dear  Miss 
Sedgwick,  how  I  have  felt  my  own  littleness,  my  total  un- 
worthiness,  when  compared  with  this  pure,  this  high-souled, 
intellectual,  yet  timid,  humble  child ;  bending  at  the  altar  of 
her  God,  and  pleading  for  pardon  and  acceptance  in  his 
sight,  and  grace  to  assist  her  in  preparing  for  eternity.  As 
her  strength  wasted,  she  often  desired  me  to  share  her 


BIOGRAPHY.  109 

hours  6f  retirement  and  converse  with  her,  and  read  to  her, 
when  unable  to  read  herself. 

"  Oh !  how  sad,  how  delightful,  how  agonizing  is  the 
memory  of  the  sweet  and  holy  communion  we  then  enjoyed. 
Forgive  me,  my  friend,  for  thus  mingling  my  own  feelings 
with  the  circumstances  you  wished  to  know;  and,  oh !  con 
tinue  to  pray  that  God  will  give  me  submission  under  this 
desolating  stroke.  She  was  my  darling,  my  almost  idolized 
child— truly,  truly,  you  have  said,  the  charm  of  my  existence. 
Her  symptoms  were  extremely  distressing,  although  she 
suffered  no  pain.  A  week  before  her  departure,  she  desired 
that  the  sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper  might  be  adminis 
tered  to  her.  « Mother/  said  she, '  I  do  not  desire  it  because 
I  feel  worthy  to  receive  it ;  I  feel  myself  a  sinner,  but  I  de 
sire  to  manifest  my  faith  in  Christ  by  receiving  an  ordinance 
instituted  by  himself  but  a  short  time  before  his  crucifixion.' 
The  Holy  Sacrament  was  administered  by  Mr.  Babcock. 
The  solemnity  of  the  scene  can  be  better  felt  than  described. 
I  cannot  attempt  it.  After  it  was  over,  a  holy  calm  seemed 
to  pervade  her  mind,  and  she  looked  almost  like  a  beatified 
spirit.  The  evening  following,  she  said  to  me,  « Mother,  I 
have  made  a  solemn  surrender  of  myself  to  God :  if  it  is  his 
will,  I  would  desire  to  live  long  enough  to  prove  the  sin 
cerity  of  my  profession,  but  his  will  be  done ;  living  or  dying 
I  am  henceforth  devoted  to  God.'  After  this  some  doubt 
seemed  to  intrude ;  her  spirit  was  troubled.  I  asked  her  if 
there  was  any  thing  she  desired  to  have  done,  any  little 
arrangements  to  be  made,  any  thing  to  say  which  she  had 
left  unsaid,  and  assured  her  that  her  wishes  should  be  sacred 
to  me.  She  turned  her  eyes  upon  me  with  an  expression 
so  sad,  so  mournfully  sweet — '  Mother,  "  When  I  can  read 
my  title  clear  to  mansions  in  the  skies,"  then  I  will  think  of 
other  matters.'  Her  hair,  which  when  a  little  child  had  been 
often  cut  to  improve  its  growth,  was  now  very  beautiful; 
and  she  usually  took  much  pains  with  it.  During  the  whole 
course  of  her  sickness  I  had  taken  care  of  it.  One  day,  not 
long  before  her  death,  she  said,  evidently  making  a  great 
effort  to  speak  with  composure,  '  Mother,  if  you  are  willing 
I  will  have  my  hair  cut  off;  it  is  troublesome ;  I  should  like 
it  better  short.'  I  understood  her  at  once:  she  did  not  like 
to  have  the  idea  of  death  associated  with  those  beautiful 
tresses  which  I  had  loved  to  braid.  She  would  have  them 
taken  off  while  living.  I  mournfully  gave  my  consent,  and 
she  said,  *  I  will  not  ask  you,  my  dear  mother,  to  do  it ;  my 

friend,  Mrs.  F will  be  with  me  to-night,  and  she  will  do 

it  for  me.'  The  dark  rich  locks  were  severed  at  midnight. 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  expression  of  her  young  faded  face 
as  I  entered  the  room.  « Do  not  be  agitated,  dear  mamma. 
I  am  more  comfortable  now.  Lay  it  away,  if  you  please, 
9* 


110  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

ritid  to-morrow  I  will  arrange  and  dispose  of  it.  Do  you 
know  that  I  view  my  hair  as  something  sacred  1  It  is  a 
part  of  myself,  which  will  be  re-united  to  my  body  at  the 
resurrection/ 

"  She  had  sat  in  an  easy  chair  or  reclined  upon  a  sofa  for 
several  weeks.  On  Friday  the  22d  of  November,  at  my  ur 
gent  entreaty,  she  consented  to  be  laid  upon  the  bed.  She 
found  it  a  relief,  and  sunk  into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  she 
was  only  awoke  when  I  aroused  her  to  take  some  refresh 
ment.  When  she  awoke,  she  looked  and  spoke  like  an 
angel,  but  soon  dropped  asleep  as  before.  Oh!  how  my 
poor  heart  trembled,  for  I  felt  that  it  was  but  the  precursor 
to  her  long  last  rest,  although  many  of  our  friends  thought 
she  might  yet  linger  some  weeks.  A  total  loss  of  appetite, 
and  a  "difficulty  in  swallowing,  prevented  her  from  taking 
any  nourishment  throughout  the  day,  and  when  we  placed 
her  in  the  easy  chair,  at  night,  in  order  to  arrange  her  bed, 
I  offered  her  some  nice  food,  which  1  had  prepared,  and 
found  she  could  not  take  it.  My  feelings  amounted  almost 
to  agony.  She  said  '  Do  not  be  distressed.  I  will  take  it  by 
and  by.'  I  seated  myself  beside  her,  and  she  said,  '  Surely, 
my  dear  mother,  you  have  many  consolations.  You  are 
gathering  a  little  family  in  heaven  to  welcome  you.'  My 
heart  was  full ;  when  I  could  speak,  I  said,  '  Yes,  my  love,  I 
feel  that  I  am  indeed  gathering  a  little  family  in  heaven  to 
bid  you  welcome,  but  when  they  are  all  assembled  there, 
how  dreadful  to  doubt  whether  I  may  ever  be  permitted  to 
join  the  circle !'  « Oh  hush,  dear,  dear  mother,  do  not  in 
dulge  such  sad  thoughts;  the  fact  of  your  having  trained 
this  little  band  to  inhabit  that  holy  place,  is  sufficient  evi 
dence  to  me  that  you  will  not  fail  to  join  us  there.'  I  was 
with  her  myself  that  night,  and  a  friend  in  the  neighbour 
hood  sat  up  also.  On  Saturday  morning,  after  I  had  taken 
half  an  hour's  sleep,  I  found  her  as  quiet  as  a  sleeping  infant. 
1  prepared  her  some  food,  and  when  I  awoke  her  to  take  it, 
she  said,  'Dear  mother,  I  will  try  if  it  is  only  to  please  you.' 
I  fed  her  as  I  would  have  fed  a  babe.  She  smiled  sweetly 
and  said,  'Mother,  I  am  again  an  infant.'  I  asked  if  I 
should  read  to  her ;  she  said  yes,  she  would  like  to  have  me 
read  a  part  of  the  gospel'  of  John.  I  did  so,  and  then  said, 
'  My  dear  Margaret,  you  look  sweetly  composed  this  morn 
ing.  I  trust  all  is  peace  within  your  heart.'  « Yes,  mother, 
all  is  peace,  sweet  peace  I  feel  that  I  can  do  nothing  for 
myself.  I  have  cast  my  burden  upon  Christ.'  I  asked  if 
she  could  rest  her  hopes  there  in  perfect  confidence.  '  Yes,' 
she  replied,  'Jesus  will  not  fail  me — I  can  trust  him.'  She 
then  sank  into  a  deep  sleep,  as  on  the  preceding  day. 

"  In  the  afternoon,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  came  from  Ballston. 
They  were  much  affected  by  the  change  a  few  days  had 


BIOGRAPHY.  Ill 

made  in  her  appearance.  I  awoke  her,  fearing  she  might 
sleep  too  long,  and  said  her  friends  had  come.  She  extended 
her  arms  to  them  both,  and  kissed  them,  saying  to  Mr.  H. 
that  he  found  her  a  late  riser,  and  then  sank  to  sleep  again. 
Mrs.  H.  remained  with  us  that  night.  About  sunset  I  spoke 
to  her.  She  awoke  and  answered  me  cheerfully,  but  observ 
ing  that  I  was  unusually  depressed,  she  said,  '  Dear  mother, 
I  am  wearing  you  out.'  I  replied,  '  My  child,  my  beloved 
child,  it  is  not  that ;  the  thought  of  our  separation  fills  me 
with  anguish.'  I  never  shall  forget  the  expression  of  her 
sweet  face,  as  she  replied.  *  Mother,  my  own  dear  mother, 
do  not  grieve.  Our  parting  will  not  be  long.  In  life  we 
were  inseparable,  and  I  feel  that  you  cannot  live  without 
me.  You  will  soon  join  me,  and  we  shall  part  no  more.'  I 
kissed  her  pale  cheek,  as  I  bent  over  her,  and  finding  my 
agitation  too  strong  to  repress,  I  left  the  room.  She  soon 
after  desired  to  get  up;  she  said  she  must  have  a  coughing 
fit,  and  she  could  bear  it  better  in  the  chair.  When  there 
she  began  to  cough,  and  her  distress  was  beyond  descrip 
tion  ;  her  strength  was  soon  exhausted,  and  we  again  car 
ried  her  to  the  bed.  She  coughed  from  six  until  half  past 
ten.  I  then  prevailed  on  her  to  take  some  nutritious  drink, 
and  she  fell  asleep. 

"My  husband  and  Mrs.  H.  were  both  of  them  anxious 
that  I  should  retire  and  get  some  rest,  but  I  did  not  feel  the 
want  of  it,  and  impressed  as  I  was  with  the  idea  that  this 
was  the  last  night  she  would  pass  on  earth,  I  could  not  go 
to  bed.  But  others  saw  not  the  change,  and  to  satisfy  them, 
I  went  at  twelve  to  my  room,  which  opened  into  hers, 
There  I  sat  listening  to  every  sound.  All  seemed  quiet.  I 
twice  opened  the  door,  and  Mrs.  H.  said  she  slept,  and  had 
taken  her  drink  as  often  as  directed,  and  again  urged  me 
to  go  to  bed.  A  little  after  two  I  put  on  my  night  dress, 
and  laid  down.  Between  three  and  four  Mrs.  H.  came  in 
haste  for  ether.  I  pointed  to  the  bottle,  and  sprang  up. 
She  said,  '  I  entreat,  my  dear  Mrs.  Davidson,  that  you  do 
not  rise ;  there  is  no  sensible  change,  only  a  turn  of  oppres 
sion.'  She  closed  the  door,  and  I  hastened  to  rise,  when 
Mrs.  H.  came  again,  and  said  Margaret  has  asked  for  her 
mother.  I  flew — she  held  the  bottle  of  ether  in  her  own 
hand,  and  pointed  to  her  breast.  I  poured  it  on  her  head 
and  chest.  She  revived.  'I  am  better  now,'  said  she. 
'Mother,  you  tremble,  you  are  cold;  put  on  your  clothes.' 
I  stepped  to  the  fire,  and  .threw  on  a  wrapper,  when  she 
stretched  out  both  her  arms,  and  exclaimed,  ' Mother,  take 
me  in  your  arms.'  I  raised  her,  and  seating  myself  on  the 
bed,  passed  my  arms  around  her  waist ;  her  head  dropped 
upon  my  bosom,  and  her  expressive  eyes  were  raised  to 
mine.  That  look  I  never  shall  forget;  it  said,  'Tell  me, 


112  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

mother,  is  this  death)'  I  answered  the  appeal  as  if  she  had 
spoken.  I  laid  my  hand  on  her  white  brow — a  cold  dew 
had  gathered  there.  I  spoke, « Yes,  my  beloved,  it  is  almost 
finished ;  you  will  soon  be  with  Jesus.'  She  gave  one  more 
look,  two  or  three  short  fluttering  breaths,  and  all  was 
over — her  spirit  was  with  its  God — not  a  struggle  or  groan 
preceded  her  departure.  Her  father  just  came  in  time  to 
witness  her  last  breath.  For  a  long  half  hour  I  remained 
in  the  same  position  with  the  precious  form  of  my  lifeless 
child  upon  my  bosom.  I  closed  those  beautiful  eyes  with 
my  own  hand.  I  was  calm.  I  felt  that  I  had  laid  my  angel 
from  my  own  breast,  upon  the  bosom  of  her  God.  Her 
father  and  myself  were  alone.  Her  Sabbath  commenced  in 
heaven.  Ours  was  opened  in  deep,  deep  anguish.  Our 
sons,  who  had  been  sent  for,  had  not  arrived,  and  four  days 
and  nights  did  Ellen,  (our  young  nurse,  whom  Margaret 
dearly  loved,)  and  I,  watch  over  the  sacred  clay.  I  could 
not  resign  this  mournful  duty  to  strangers.  Although  no 
son  or  relative  was  with  us  in  this  sad  and  solemn  hour, 
never  did  sorrowing  strangers  meet  with  more  sympathy, 
than  we  received  in  this  hour  of  affliction,  from  the  respected 
inhabitants  of  Saratoga.  We  shall  carry  with  us  through 
life,  the  grateful  remembrance  of  their  kindness.  And  now, 
my  dear  madam,  let  me  thank  you  for  your  kind  consoling 
letter,  it  has  given  me  consolation.  My  Margaret,  my  now 
angel  child,  loved  you  tenderly.  She  recognised  in  yours 
a  kindred  mind,  and  I  feel  that  her  pure  spirit  will  behold 
with  delight  your  efforts  to  console  her  bereaved  mother." 

She  departed  this  life  on  the  25th  of  November,  1838, 
aged  fifteen  years  and  eight  months;  her  earthly  remains 
repose  in  the  grave-yard  of  the  village  of  Saratoga. 

"  A  few  days  after  her  departure,"  observes  Mrs.  Davidson 
in  a  memorandum,  "  I  was  searching  the  library  in  the  hope 
of  finding  some  further  memento  of  my  lost  darling,  when  a 
packet  folded  in  the  form  of  a  letter  met  my  eye.  It  was 
confined  with  a  needle  and  thread,  instead  of  a  seal,  and 
secured  more  firmly  by  white  sewing  silk,  which  was  passed 
several  times  around  it ;  the  superscription  was,  *  For  my 
mother,  private.'  Upon  opening  these  papers,  I  found  they 
contained  the  results  of  self-examination,  from  a  very  early 
period  of  her  life,  until  within  a  few  days  of  its  close.  These 
results  were  noted  and  composed  at  different  periods.  They 
are  some  of  the  most  interesting  relics  she  has  left,  but  they 
are  of  too  sacred  a  nature  to  meet  the  public  eye.  They  dis 
play  a  degree  of  self-knowledge  and  humility,  and  a  depth 
of  contrition,  which  could  only  emanate  from  a  heart  chastened 
and  subdued  by  the  power  of  the  divine  grace." 


.      BIOGRAPHY.  113 

We  here  conclude  this  memoir,  which,  for  the  most  part, 
as  the  reader  will  perceive,  is  a  mere  transcript  of  the  records 
furnished  by  a  mother's  heart.  We  shall  not  pretend  to  com 
ment  on  these  records ;  they  need  no  comment,  and  they 
admit  no  heightening.  Indeed,  the  farther  we  have  proceeded 
with  our  subject,  the  more  has  the  intellectual  beauty  and  the 
seraphic  purity  of  the  little  being  we  have  endeavoured  to 
commemorate  broken  upon  us ;  and  the  more  have  we  shrunk 
at  our  own  unworthiness  for  such  a  task.  To  use  one  of  her 
own  exquisite  expressions,  she  was  "  A  spirit  of  heaven  fet 
tered  by  the  strong  affections  of  earth ;"  and  the  whole  of  her 
brief  sojourn  here,  seems  to  have  been  a  struggle  to  regain 
her  native  skies.  We  may  apply  to  her  a  passage  from  one 
of  her  own  tender  apostrophes  to  the  memory  of  her  sister 
Lucretia. 

'One  who  came  from  heaven  awhile 

To  bless  the  mourners  here, 
Their  joys  to  hallow  with  her  smile, 

Their  sorrow  with  her  tear. 

Who  joined  to  all  the  charms  of  earth 

The  noblest  gifts  of  heaven ; 
To  whom  the  Muses  at  her  birat 

Their  sweetest  smiles  had  given. 

Whose  eye  beamed  forth  with  fancy's  ray, 

And  genius  pure  and  high ; 
Whose  very  soul  had  seemed  to  bathe 

In  streams  of  melody. 

The  cheek  which  once  so  sweetly  beamed, 

Grew  pallid  with  decay, 
The  burning  fire  within  consumed 

Its  tenement  of  clay. 

Death,  as  if  fearing  to  destroy, 

Paused  o'er  her  couch  awhile  ; 
She  gave  a  tear  for  those  she  loved, 

Then  met  him  with  a  smile. 


END    OF    THE    MEMOIR. 


REMAINS. 


114) 


A   TALE. 


WRITTEN     AT     THE     AGE     OF     FIFTEEN. 

ABOUT  the  close  of  the  year  1813  there  stood  on  the  banks  of  the 
Saranac  a  small  neat  cottage,  which  peeped  forth  from  the  surrounding 
foliage,  the  image  of  rural  quiet  and  contentment ;  the  scenery  around 
it  was  wildly  yet  beautifully  romantic ;  the  clear  blue  river,  glancing 
and  sparkling  at  its  feet,  served  only  as  a  preparative  for  another  and 
more  magnificent  view,  where  the  stream,  gliding  on  to  the  west,  was 
buried  in  the  broad  white  bosom  of  Champlain,  which  stretched  back, 
wave  after  wave,  in  the  'distance,  until  lost  in  faint  blue  mists  that  veiled 
the  sides  of  its  guardian  mountains,  seeming  more  lovely  in  their  in 
distinctness. 

On  the  borders  of  the  Saranac  the  little  village  of  Plattsburgh  had 
sprung  up,  in  picturesque  wildness,  amid  the  loveliest  haunts  of  nature, 
imparting  to  the  mind,  by  its  indications  of  man's  presence  with  the 
joys  and  sufferings  ever  attendant  in  his  train,  a  deeper  interest  than  a 
scene  of  solitary  nature  would  ever  have  inspired.  Of  all  the  low- 
roofed  and  shaded  dwellings  which  rose  around,  the  one  named  above, 
although  less  indicative  of  wealth,  was  by  far  the  most  striking,  from 
its  peculiarly  beautiful  situation.  The  old-fashioned  piazza,  which  ex 
tended  in  front  of  the  building,  was  shaded  with  vines  and  honeysuckle 
just  budding  into  life ;  the  turf  on  the  bank  of  the  river  was  of  the 
richest  and  brightest  emerald,  and  the  wild  rose  and  svveetbriar,  which 
twined  over  the  neat  enclosure,  seemed  to  bloom  with  more  delicate 
freshness  and  perfume  within  the  bounds  of  this  earthly  paradise.  It 
was  May — the  blue  waves  of  the  Saranac,  so  lately  released  from  their 
icy  bondage,  bounded  along  with  music  and  gladness,  to  meet  and 
mingle  with  its  parent  lake ;  the  fairy  isles,  so  beautifully  throned  on 
its  sparkling  bosom,  robed  in  all  the  rich  luxuriance  of  spring,  and  the 
song  of  the  birds  floated  forth  on  the  bulrny  air  like  a  strain  of  seraph 
melody. 

The  proprietor  of  this  lowly  mansion  was  a  grey-haired  and  respecta 
ble  physician,  whose  life  had  been  spent  in  toiling  to  mitigate  the  ter 
rors  of  disease,  and  to  obtain  a  support  for  his  lovely  and  delicate  family 
A  few  words  may  serve  to  describe  a  character  so  open  and  ingenuous, 
and  a  fate  so  common  to  dispositions  like  his.  Early  in  life  he  evinced 
a  studious  and  scientific  turn  of  mind,  and  had  seized  upon  the  profes 
sion  of  medicine  with  all  the  earnestness  of  youth.  Thirsting  for 
knowledge,  he  plunged  into  its  deepest  waters,  and,  after  a  few  years 
of  unremitting  study,  entered  upon  life  with  a  character  of  firm  and 
unbending  integrity,  and  an  almost  childlike  simplicity  of  manners  and 
ignor-mce  of  the  ways  of  the  world.  This  was  a  disposition  illy  calcu- 
1  ited  to  gain  wealth  or  even  competence;  he  knew  not  how  to  snatch 
the  golden  sands  that  lay  within  his  grasp ;  he  could  not  be  servile  to 
the  rich  or  tyrannical  to  the  poor,  and  passed  through  life  unblest  with 

(1151 


116  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

other  riches  than  those  of  an  approving  conscience,  and  the  tributes  of 
respect  and  love  from  those  whose  welfare  he  had  promoted  at  the 
expense  of  his  own.  At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  saw  and  loved  a 
beautiful  and  high-spirited  girl,  and  obeying  the  impulse  of  affection 
rather  than  the  calm  reasonings  of  prudence,  he  united  her  fortunes 
with  his  own,  and  settled  down  for  life  in  this  lowly  and  humble  retreat 
we  have  vainly  attempted  to  describe.  At  the  time  of  our  simple  tale, 
he  was  far  in  the  decline  of  life,  but  still  performing  his  professional 
duties.  He  found  his  happiness  in  promoting  the  comfort  of  his  family 
and  enjoying  the  quiet  pleasures  of  his  cheerful  fireside.  The  circle 
which  had  once  closed  around  it  was  now  sadly  diminished  by  the  in 
roads  of  death,  but  three  lovely  plants  still  clung  by  the  side  of  their 
parent  tree,  and  although  one  of  these  remaining  blossoms  seemed 
already  fading  from  the  eyes  of  her  idolizing  parents,  there  was  much 
of  pure  and  refined  enjoyment  in  this  lowly  cottage,  unknown  in  the 
haunts  of  wealth  and  worldly  pleasure.  The  two  eldest  children  were 
sisters ;  the  one  was  seventeen,  and  the  other  had  nearly  attained  her 
sixteenth  year.  Emily,  the  eldest,  notwithstanding  her  youth,  was  the 
belle  of  the  little  village,  and  the  life  of  her  family  circle.  Her  form 
and  face  might  have  been  taken  for  the  model  of  a  Hebe — all  health  and 
gaiety — her  complexion  of  pure  red  and  white,  had  never  been  blanched 
by  the  cold  touch  of  disease,  and  her  smiling  lip,  with  its  childlike 
dimples,  seemed  bidding  defiance  to  care  and  sorrow,  with  all  their 
retinue  of  sighs,  tears,  and  wrinkles ;  her  dark  auburn  hair  curled  in 
natural  and  tiny  ringlets  on  her  soft  white  neck  and  shoulders ;  her  full 
hazel  eye  wore  an  expression  of  habitual  smiling  archness,  and  her 
birdlike  voice  was  for  ever  bursting  forth  in  snatches  of  wild  and  un 
taught  melody.  Oh  !  dearly  did  her  father  love,  at  the  close  of  the  long, 
weary  day,  to  draw  forth  his  beloved  flute  and  practise  some  soul-stirring 
air,  while  the  voice  of  the  light-hearted  maiden  blent  with  its  notes,  and 
her  feet  danced  lightly  to  its  measure.  Such  was  Emily,  whose  spright- 
liness  and  native  good  sense  had  rendered  her  the  favourite  of  her  father. 
But  how  shall  I  describe,  in  words,  the  high-souled,  the  almost  ethe 
real  Melanie  ?  Oh  !  that  memory  could  paint  on  other  tablets  than  on 
those  of  the  heart !  Oh !  that  we  could  transfer  to  lifeless  paper  the 
warm  and  glowing  images  which  she  has  there  implanted !  then  might 
I  picture  that  fragile  form,  which  seemed  every  day  fading  into  more 
spiritual  fragility ;  that  broad,  high  brow,  through  which  the  blue  veins 
coursed  like  silken  threads,  so  feeble  and  transparent ;  that  veil  of  dark 
and  luxuriant  hair  parted  so  meekly  above  it,  and  flowing,  in  long, 
waving  tresses,  on  her  neck ;  that  cheek,  now  pale  as  the  snow  of  De 
cember,  now  flushed  with  a  hue  too  intense  for  health ;  and  that  eye, 
one  moment  melting  with  the  warmest  tears  of  earthly  emotion,  and  the 
next,  sparkling  with  the  radiant  light  of  angelic  inspiration !  She 
seemed  not  a  being  of  the  present,  all  her  confidence  in  the  happiness 
of  earth  was  buried  with  the  past,  and  all  her  hopes  of  pure,  exalted 
blessedness  were  merged  in  the  vast  future  of  eternity.  Ardent  and 
enthusiastic  in  her  temperament,  she  had  loved.  Highly  and  poetically 
imaginative,  she  had  invested  the  object  of  her  affection  with  the  highest 
and  most  exalted  qualities  of  our  nature,  and  when  stern,  unbending 
truth  dissolved  those  bright  dreams  of  fancy  in  which  she  had  lived  and 
revelled — when  she  beheld  in  sober  reality  that  he  upon  whom  she  had 
bestowed  her  affections  was  unworthy  of  the  sacred  trust,  her  mind 


REMAINS.  117 

received  a  shock  only  to  be  felt  or  imagined  by  a  spirit  like  her  own — 
gentle,  confiding,  and,  at  the  same  time,  bearing  within  itself  a  standard 
of  lofty  honour,  of  pure  sentiment,  and  high  and  heavenly  virtue,  by 
which  she  judged  of  the  world  around  her,  it  was  indeed  an  overwhelm- 
ing  blow ;  but  hers  was  not  the  mind  to  waste  itself  in  fruitless  repinings, 
and  bury  all  its  wealth  of  intellect  and  affection  in  the  grave  of  one  dis 
appointed  hope :  far  from  it !  Upon  its  first  short  voyage  on  the  cold 
waters  of  life,  her  little  bark  had  been  wrecked,  and  it  now  turned  back 
to  the  quiet  haven  of  home  with  a  meek  and  gentle  confidence,  to  bestow 
upon  her  family  that  love  which  was  still  treasured  in  her  heart,  and 
direct  her  powers  of  rnind  to  higher  and  holier  purposes  than  before. 
But  if  her  spirit  was  strong  in  misfortune,  her  delicate  frame  partook 
not  of  that  strength  :  although  the  stream  of  affliction  had  passed  over 
the  fragile  flower,  it  had  planted  in  the  pale  blossom  the  germs  of 
decay — she  seemed  a  spirit  in  the  home  and  with  the  friends  of  her 
childhood — she  was  with  them,  but  not  of  them.  The  light  faded  from 
her  eye,  the  buoyancy  from  her  step,  and  her  voice  no  longer  mingled 
with  the  gay-hearted  carols  of  her  sister.  Her  hopes  were  now  rested 
upon  a  firmer  foundation  than  that  of  earth,  and  while  she  walked  day 
by  day  more  deeply  into  "  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,"  her  soul 
and  its  pure  and  heavenly  faith  waxed  brighter  and  brighter  to  the  close. 
The  dark  rnists  of  receding  time  seemed  to  blend  with  the  brilliant  fore- 
shadowings  of  a  blessed  eternity,  and  impart  to  her  manners  an  habitual 
and  subdued  mournfulness,  changed  at  times  to  the  loftiest  elevation,  as 
she  caught  some  unwonted  flash  from  that  far  land  of  light  towards 
which  she  was  slowly  and  hopefully  journeying. 

Her  heart,  with  its  warm  and  glowing  tenderness,  still  clung  to  the 
beings  of  her  early  love,  and  when  she  saw  how  deeply  they  mourned 
her  visible  decline,  with  a  sad  sweetness  she  resumed  her  wonted  avo 
cations,  though  each  word  and  act  was  tinged  with  the  lofty  and  spiritual 
enthusiasm  of  her  nature.  If  she  read,  her  mind  sought  fitting  aliment 
in  the  holy  sublimity  of  Milton,  or  the  melancholy  force  and  grandeur 
of  Young ;  if  she  drew,  faces  and  forms  of  aerial  and  unearthly  beauty 
sprung  from  her  pencil ;  and  if  she  sung,  the  wild  and  tremulous  melody 
of  her  voice  thrilled  while  it  charmed  the  listener.  She  was  dying!  For 
the  brief  space  of  sixteen  years  she  had  been  a  habitant  of  earth — she 
had  tasted  of  its  purest  joy  and  its  keenest  sorrow,  and  now,  with  a 
calm  and  trustful  earnestness,  she  was  hastening  to  the  home  of  the 
weary.  Still  there  were  deep  and  tender  ties  which  bound  her  below. 
Her  mother  she  adored ;  her  spirited  and  highly-gifted  little  brother  she 
watched  with  a  mother's  fondness;  the  sister,  the  beautiful  and  light- 
hearted  Emily,  she  loved  with  more  than  sisterly  affection ;  and  her 
country,  again  threatened  by  the  power  of  a  foreign  throne,  while 
scarcely  shadowed  by  the  banner  of  its  new-born  freedom — her  country, 
its  struggles  and  its  welfare,  was  still  a  theme  of  deep  and  engrossing 
interest.  Such  was  Melanie  Mentreville — such,  as  far  as  language  can 
imperfectly  pourtray,  the  lovely  yet  too  unearthly  form  unfolded  to  my 
"  mind's  eye,"  like  an  aerial  vision — such  the  gentle  yet  elevated  spirit 
which  is  mingling  with  every  dream  of  fancy,  and  would  fain  embody 
itself  in  words. 

Those  who  seek  in  these  few  pages  for  a  regular  and  eventful  tale, 
will  rise  disappointed  from  the  perusal ;  it  is  nothing  more  than  a  faint 
and  imperfect  sketch  of  sentiments  and  scenes  which  have  long  since 
10 


118  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

passed  away,  with  their  actors,  "to  dim  burial  isles  of  the  past,"  and 
which,  still  living  as  vividly  as  ever  in  the  ideal  world  of  memory,  I 
would  once  more  introduce  upon  the  stage  of  life  as  beings  of  real  and 
actual  existence. 

It  was  a  glorious  evening  in  May  ;  the  sun  was  just  retiring  to  his 
couch  in  the  west,  arrayed  in  all  the  splendid  livery  of  a  northern  sun- 
set;  the  groves  of  pine  and  elm  upon  the  lake  shore  were  bathed  in  his 
golden  hue,  and  their  tall  shadows  were  reflected  in  the  clear  depths 
beneath;  the  distant  mountains  of  Vermont,  which  bounded  the  horizon, 
were  shrouded  with  a  veil  of  dream-like  glory,  blending  shade  by  shade 
with  the  blue  tints  above,  till  heaven  and  earth  seemed  one ;  and  that 
heaven !  oh  that  pen  could  describe  its  calm  and  solemn  magnificence ; 
the  clouds  of  amber  and  gold,  tinted  and  fringed  with  crimson,  floating 
over  the  pure  depths,  moving  as  in  sleep  to  their  bright  western  home, 
while  a  rich  blending  of  purple  and  green  rose  up  from  the  horizon  as 
if  darting  to  meet  them  on  their  mid-career.  It  was  at  this  glorious 
sunset  hour  that  the  two  sisters  had  repaired  to  the  piazza  of  their  little 
cottage  to  breathe  the  invigorating  air  of  spring ;  and  each  to  enjoy 
with  their  peculiar  feelings  the  lovely  and  solemnizing  influence  of  the 
scene.  With  the  last  ray  of  the  golden  sunlight  playing  over  her 
pale  upraised  features,  Melanie  stood  beside  one  of  the  vine-wreathed 
columns,  her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  and  her  full  dark  eyes  bent 
earnestly  upon  the  wild  and  purified  drapery  of  the  heavens,  now  fading 
into  dimness,  now  combining  and  bursting  forth  hues  more  gorgeous 
than  before.  Emily  was  bending  over  a  rose-tree  in  the  little  enclosure, 
twining  a  fairy  wreath  of  the  wild  sweetbriar,  while  the  lively  air 
which  she  almost  unconsciously  warbled,  as  if  in  unison  with  the  cha 
racter  of  the  scene,  died  away  in  tones  of  plaintive  and  tremulous 
sweetness.  For  a  few  moments  the  silence  was  unbroken,  until  Emily, 
springing  lightly  to  her  sister's  side,  exclaimed,  while  her  fine  features 
beamed  with  an  expression  of  affectionate  gaiety,  "  How  can  you  look 
so  sad,  Melanie,  when  all  around  us  is  breathing  the  very  spirit  of  hap- 
piness  ?  Do  not  the  clouds  you  gaze  upon  make  your  heart  feel  light 
and  airy  as  themselves !  Will  not  these  sweet  flowers  I  have  twined 
for  you,  impart  something  of  their  own  hue  to  your  cheek  and  your 
thoughts  ?" 

Melanie  gently  took  the  wreath  from  her  hand  and  replied,  "  You 
mistake  me,  sister,  I  am  not  sad — never  perhaps  did  I  experience  a  mo 
ment  of  more  exquisite  joy,  for  I  thought,  that  ere  those  clouds  had 
many  times  fleeted  away  to  their  bright  homes  in  the  west,  my  freed 
spirit  might  soar  above  them  and  the  great  orb  which  imparts  their 
brilliance  ;  to  the  source  of  all  light,  all  love;  that  ere  those  flowers  had 
faded  with  the  blasts  of  autumn,  I  might  rest  in  that  fair  land,  where 
flowers  of  undying  bloom  bathe  for  ever  in  the  river  of  the  waters  of 
life ;  where  there  is  no  more  winter  to  chill  the  bright  buds  of  nature, 
or  the  far  more  fragile  blossoms  of  the  heart." 

"  Oh,  Melanie  !  Melanie  !"  said  Emily  passing  her  arm  around  her 
sister's  neck,  and  bursting  into  tears  ;  "  you  will  break  my  heart.  Would 
you  so  gladly  leave  us  all — father  and  mother,  and  me — and — " 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Melanie,  earnestly  ;  "  but  even  though  you  should 
see  me  no  more,  I  feel,  I  know,  that  I  shall  not  leave  you,  my  own,  my 
only  sister.  The  thought  may  be  a  presumptuous  one,  but  something 
within  tells  me  that  I  shall  see  you,  shall  love  you  as  dearly  as  now — 


REMAINS.  119 

perhaps,  even  be  permitted  to  watch  over  and  protect  you,  and  oh,  Emi 
ly,  were  not  this  happiness !" 

She  replied  only  by  a  warmer  pressure  of  the  pule  hand  within  her 
own,  and  borne  away  by  the  suggestions  of  her  wild  fancy,  Melanie 
continued — 

"  Yes,  Emily,  though  this  weak  and  wasted  frame  may  be  gone  from 
among  you,  my  spirit  shall  be  with  you ;  yours  will  be  the  blessed  task 
of  soothing  the  pillow  of  disease,  when  our  beloved  parents  shall  tread 
the  pathway  I  have  trodden ;  but  think  not  that  Melanie,  the  child  of  their 
love,  will  be  far  from  them  in  that  parting  hour — when  you  are  in  sor 
row,  my  soul  shall  plead  for  you  at  the  throne  of  eternal  mercy — and 
when  you  are  happy,  my  voice  shall  whisper  in  your  soul  of  that  Hea 
venly  Father,  from  whose  treasures  of  love  cometh  all  happiness  on 
earth,  and  all  your  hopes  of  blessedness  in  Heaven  !  Do  not  weep, 
Emily,  I  shall  love  you  all  with  a  purer  and  holier  love.  My  kind- 
hearted  and  ingenuous  father,  my  high-souled,  my  beloved  mother :  you, 
rny  sweet  blossom  ;  and  you  also,  my  noble  little  brother,"  she  added,  as 
the  lovely  boy  bounded  over  the  threshold,  and  she  placed  her  hand 
carelessly  on  his  long  dark  curls. 

"  Oh !  sister,  sister !"  cried  Alfred  with  all  the  eagerness  of  boyhood, 
"  oh !  the  sights  I  have  seen  to-day  !  I  have  crossed  the  river  in  a  canoe, 
and  I  have  been  up  to  the  old  fort,  and  I  have  seen  the  rnilitia-men 
training,  and  the  flags,  and  the  drums,  and  the  big  cannon,  and  all ! — 
didn't  you  hear  it  fire  ?  Sister  Emma  and  Mr.  Selden  said  I  should  be 
a  soldier.  Shall  I  not,  dear  sister  ?"  and  with  a  martial  air  the  minia 
ture  hero  strode  up  and  down  the  piazza  as  if  courting  admiration. 

"Fie,  Alfred  !"  replied  Emily,  to  whose  lips  the  smile  had  returned 
as  before,  "  has  the  red  coat  and  the  gay  epaulettes  charmed  you  so  soon  ? 
Remember,  my  little  brother,  that  the  life  of  a  soldier  is  a  life  of  hard 
ships,  and  his  employment  a  fierce  and  deadly  one ;  those  glittering 
bayonets  have  made  many  a  mother  childless,  and  those  gay  cockades 
cover  many  a  worthless  or  deceitful  brain.  No !  never  be  a  soldier, 
Alfred." 

"  Say  not  so,  Emily,"  exclaimed  Milanie  ;  "  though  we  now  smile  at 
the  proud  step  and  flashing  eye  of  the  mimic  warrior,  I  can  read  his 
fate  in  them.  If  his  life  is  spared,  that  sprightly  and  slender  form  will 
expand  into  the  tall  and  athletic  man,  and  the  spark  that  is  now  warming 
into  life  his  unfledged  fancy,  will  strengthen  into  a  glowing  and  un 
quenchable  flame ;  and  as  it  now  prompts  to  those  tones  and  gestures 
of  mock  defiance  and  command,  it  will  lead  him  on  to  deeds  of  high 
and  lofty  daring.  Yes  !  thou  wilt  be  a  soldier,  my  little  Alfred — noble, 
generous,  high-souled,  and  brave ;  all,  all — "  her  voice  trembled  as  she 
added,  "  all  I  once  thought  another." 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  a  soldier,"  echoed  the  youthful  candidate  for  fame — 
"  a  brave  and  an  honourable  soldier ;"  and  he  bounded  away  through 
the  open  door,  while  the  hall  rang  with  his  shouts. 

For  a  few  moments  Melanie  stood  with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her 
bosom  as  if  in  mental  prayer  for  the  interesting  boy  whose  fate  she  had 
prophesied  ;  and  Emily  seemed  buried  in  deep  revery,  her  head  bowed, 
and  her  hand  unconsciously  pulling  the  leaves  from  a  splendid  moss 
rose,  which  was  half  concealed  in  her  bosom.  The  silence  was  at 
length  broken  by  the  soft  voice  of  Milanie.  "  Whence  came  that  sweet 
rose,  sister  Emily  ?"  The  maiden  started  from  her  revery,  blushed  deep 
ly,  and  drew  the  bud  from  the  folds  of  her  handkerchief. 


120  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  Forgive  me,  Melanie — I — Walter — Mr.  Selden  left  it  for  you,  and 
I — I  forgot  to  give  it  you." 

A  faint  sweet  smile  passed  over  Melanie's  delicate  features  as  she  re 
plied — "  Keep  it,  Emily  ;  save  as  a  proof  of  brotherly  kindness,  his  gifts 
are  valueless  to  me." 

Emily  gazed  upon  the  calm  and  gentle  face  before  her  with  a  mingled 
expression  of  doubt  and  joyful  inquiry.  "  Do  you  not — tell  me,  dear 
sister, — I  fear  it  cannot  be— your  heart  belies  your  words  ?" 

Melanie  took  her  trembling  hand  in  both  her  own,  and  replied,  while 
a  shade  of  deep  sadness  mingled  with  the  affectionate  simplicity  of  her 
manner. 

"  No,  my  beloved  sister,  you  wrong  me ;  what  I  say  is  the  true,  the 
only  language  of  my  heart.  I  will  own  to  you  that  once  had  I  known 
Walter  Selden,  I  might  have  returned  with  ardour  what  I  now  view 
with  pain  as  an  unfortunate  and  misplaced  attachment.  You  believe  it 
not,  Emily,  but  I  am  dying.  Js  it  for  me,  whose  every  thought  and 
hope  should  rest  upon  that  world  of  spirits  to  which  I  am  hastening,  to 
twine  my  affections  around  an  earthly  idol  ?  Is  it  for  me,  whose  way 
ward  love  hath  once  been  crushed  and  blighted,  to  bid  it  arise  Phoenix- 
like  from  the  ashes  of  its  destruction,  with  new  hope  and  new  confi 
dence  ?  And  more  than  all,  is  it  for  rne  to  encourage  a  visionary 
attachment,  which  would  blast  the  hopes,  the  young  affections  of  a 
sister  dearer  than  life  ?  Blush  not,  Emily  ;  I  have  read  the  pure  volume 
of  your  heart  perhaps  more  clearly  than  yourself;  I  have  long  studied 
its  pages  with  pain,  yet  not  without  a  deep,  strong  hope  for  the  future. 
When  I  am  gone,  Emily,  his  now  ardent  passion  will  be  buried  in  my 
grave  *,  he  will  only  remember  me  as  a  sad  and  pleasing  vision  ;  and  as 
day  by  day  that  impression  waxes  fainter,  he  will  behold  the  loveliness, 
the  worth  of  your  mind  and  person ;  and  although  it  is  denied  to  me 
below,  my  rejoicing  spirit  shall  behold  the  union  of  those  two  my  heart 
loves  best,  my  sister  and  my  friend." 

Emily  threw  herself  in  tears  upon  the  neck  of  her  sister.  "  Oh  !  Me 
lanie,  Melanie,  my  kind,  my  generous  Melanie  !  how  can  I  believe  that 
any  one  who  has  looked  upon  that  bright,  heavenly  face,  could  ever  cast 
one  glance  upon  a  simple,  unideal  child  of  earth  like  me  ?" 

"  And  the  loveliest  of  earth's  creation,"  was  Melanie's  fond  reply  as 
she  passed  her  hand  over  the  silken  ringlets  and  blushing  cheek  of  the 
tearful  maiden. 

******** 

A  year  had  past  by ;  the  flowers  had  again  bloomed,  and  were  again 
fading,  and  time  (as  ever)  had  brought  many  a  change  upon  his  restless 
pinions.  The  little  village  of  Plattsburg  still  looked  forth  as  sweetly 
from  amid  its  groves  and  streams ;  the  Saranac  flowed  on  with  as  glad 
a  music;  the  billows  rolled  as  proudly  on  the  broad  bosom  of  Champlain, 
but  armed  fleets  in  all"  their  dreadful  array  now  rode  upon  its  waters ; 
the  v»ice  of  the  distant  cannon  echoed  back  from  its  shores,  and  martial 
music  pealed  long  and  loud  through  those  once  quiet  abodes  of  peace. 
It  was  September,  1814,  that  year  which  commenced  with  bloodshed 
and  dismay,  and  closed  with  a  triumph  that  shall  never  fade  from  the 
annals  of  our  history,  while  America  hath  a  heart  to  warm  with  the 
glow  of  patriotism,  or  a  voice  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  brave. 
Upon  the  tenth  morning  of  this  memorable  month  we  would  re-open  the 
scene  of  our  simple  drama.;  a  morning  which  rose  upon  our  feeble  band 


REMAINS.  121 

of  intrepid  patriots  in  doubt  and  anxiety,  and  inspired  in  the  breasts  of 
their  numerous  and  well-regulated  foes,  new  hopes,  new  confidence  of 
victory.  Well  might  they  look  around  upon  that  mighty  and  veteran 
host  of  fourteen  thousand  warriors,  who  had  conquered  in  Spain,  France, 
and  the  Indies,  and  forward  upon  that  weak  but  well-disciplined  band 
of  fifteen  hundred,  commanded  by  the  brave  Macomb,  and  predict  the 
triumph  which,  in  all  human  probability,  must  necessarily  ensue.  After 
a  long-  period  of  alternate  success  and  defeat,  the  British  forces  poured 
in  their  utmost  strength  upon  the  northern  frontier,  and  determined,  by 
a  decisive  attack  upon  the  comparatively  unprotected  village,  to  open  a 
free  passage  into  the  heart  of  that  country  which  they  had  laboured  so 
long  and  so  fruitlessly  to  subdue.  Their  officers  were  men  who  sought 
in  foreign  victories  a  glory  which  should  enrol  their  names  for  ever 
upon  the  pages  of  England's  history ;  they  fought  for  distinctions,  for 
titles,  for  wealth,  and  they  knew  not  the  force  of  a  feeble  arm,  when 
directed  and  nerved  by  that  holy  patriotism  which  could  toil  and  bleed, 
ere  it  would  yield  one  single  minutia  of  that  independence  bequeathed 
to  them  by  the  valour  of  their  immortal  sires. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth,  the  land  force,  commanded  by  Sir  George 
Prevost,  had  approached  the  village  of  Plattsburgh,  and  their  fleet  was 
prepared  to  make  the  attack  by  water  at  the  same  time  that  the  army 
entered  the  town,  and  overcame  the  feeble  resistance  which  it  expected 
to  meet. 

Meanwhile  the  village  presented  a  scene  of  deep  and  thrilling  interest. 
The  small  force  which  remained  after  the  departure  of  the  American 
army  for  Lake  Erie  was  collected  by  theii  gallant  leader,  General  Ma- 
comb,  in  fort  Moreau,  situated  on  the  borders  of  the  lake,  a  short  distance 
from  the  banks  of  the  Saranac.  Here  they  had  planted  their  cannon, 
and  collected  their  means  of  defence ;  here  they  were  to  conquer,  or  if 
courage  and  skill  proved  vain,  here  they  were  to  die.  Guards  and  sen 
tinels  were  posted  at  intervals  along  the  streets,  parties  of  volunteers 
were  continually  sallying  forth  to  harass  the  enemy,  and  prepare  them 
selves  for  the  decisive  struggle,  and  expresses  were  riding  back  and 
forth  on  their  foaming  steeds,  shouting  to  the  eager  listener  the  position 
of  the  army,  as  it  approached  nearer  and  nearer,  or  hastening  in  silence 
to  the  fort  to  discharge  some  embassy  of  mighty  and  mysterious  import. 
The  greater  part  of  the  peaceful  inhabitants  had  fled  from  the  scene  of 
bloodshed  and  commotion,  and  many  a  gun  and  bayonet  were  glittering 
in  the  windows  of  their  peaceful  dwellings,  thus  converted  into  barracks 
for  the  use  of  the  soldiery,  or  hospitals  for  the  wounded. 

The  mists  of  the  morning  had  just  rolled  from  the  bosom  of  the 
waters,  and  the  sun,  struggling  through  the  dense  clouds,  had  just 
kissed  the  light  foam  upon  its  surface,  when  a  tall,  manly  youth  was 
seen  approaching  the  guards  on  the  northern  bank  of  the  Saranac  with 
a  hurried,  anxious,  yet  half-hesitating  air.  His  form  was  slight  and 
graceful  in  the  extreme,  and  the  partly  military  dress  which  he  wore 
displayed  to  advantage  its  symmetry  of  proportion.  He  carried  his 
long  rifle  in  one  hand,  and  a  massive  old-fashioned  sword  was  fastenec 
by  an  embroidered  belt  to  his  side ;  his  lips  were  firmly  compressed, 
but  his  dark  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground,  as  if  some  sad,  sub 
duing  thought  had  mingled  with  the  sterner  occupants  of  his  mind, 
As  he  approached  the  sentinels,  each  touched  his  cap  in  respect,  and  he 
passed  on  unquestioned,  until  pausing  at  the  gate  of  Dr  Mentreville's 


122  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

cottage,  he  slowly  and  softly  raised  the  latch  ;  a  curtain  was  drawn 
aside,  a  pale  face  peeped  from  the  window,  a  light  step  was  heard  in  the 
hall,  and  Emily  stood  upon  the  threshold.  A  year  had  wrought  many 
changes  in  the  person  of  this  lovely  girl;  her  form  was  taller  and  more 
womanly,  but  had  lost  much  of  its  roundness;  sorrow  and  midnight 
watching  had  faded  the  roses  on  her  cheek,  and  tears  had  been  its  fre 
quent  visitants  ;  but  her  features,  in  their  morning  freshness  and  gorgeous 
bloom,  had  never  seemed  half  so  lovely.  A  flush  sprang  to  her  face, 
and  a  light  to  her  eye,  as  she  stepped  forward  to  meet  the  stranger,  and 
extended  her  hand  with  a  frank  and  affecting  simplicity.  "Walter!" 
"  Emily  !"  His  heart  seemed  too  full  for  another  word,  and  he  raised 
his  eyes  to  hers  with  a  look  of  sad  and  apprehensive  inquiry. 

"  Oh!  do  not  ask  me,"  she  replied,  bursting  into  tears.  "Oh  !  that  I 
could  give  you  some  gleam  of  comfort;  that  I  could  lay  down  my 
worthless  life  for  my  sweet  sister  !  But  it  may  not  be,  her  frame  grows 
hourly  weaker,  and  her  mind  more  strong  ;  she  seems  all  soul — a  spirit 
of  Heaven  fettered  by  the  strong  affections  of  earth  ;  but  yet,  Walter," 
she  added,  wiping  the  blinding  tears  from  her  eyes,  "  when  I  look  upon 
her  I  can  scarcely  find  it  in  my  heart  to  grieve ;  she  seems  so  placid 
and  so  happy,  like  an  infant  returning  to  the  arms  of  its  parent :  it  is 
only  when  I  look  upon  myself,  and  dear  mother,  and  father,  and  you, 
and  think  how  lonely,  how  desolate  we  shall  be,  that  I  feel  the  full 
weight  of  sorrow." 

"  Desolate !  desolate  indeed  !"  replied  the  young  man,  and  unable 
longer  to  control  his  emotion  he  turned  from  her,  and  leaning  his  head 
upon  the  little  column  where  Melanie  had  so  often  rested,  gave  vent  to 
his  excited  feelings  in  a  flood  of  tears.  But  a  moment,  and  it  was  over 
— he  had  paid  his  tribute  upon  the  altar  of  sorrowing  affection,  and  he 
awoke  to  the  remembrance  of  sterner  and  more  pressing  duties. 

"  Forgive  me,  Emily  !"  his  cheek  burning  with  shame  at  this  transi 
tory  weakness — "  surely  the  being  for  whose  early  fate  t  have  shed 
these  unmanly  tears  must  form  my  best  apology  ;  yet  I  would  not  give 
way  to  sorrow  upon  a  day  like  this,  when  every  man  should  bring  a  cool 
head  and  a  strong  arm  to  the  succour  of  his  country." 

Emily's  pale  cheek  turned  yet  more  pallid,  as  she  exclaimed,  "  Wal 
ter,  do  you — have  you  indeed  joined  yourself  with  those  doomed  men  ?*' 
and  her  eye  rested  on  the  sword  and  rifle,  which  she  had  not  before 
perceived. 

"  And  have  I  not,  Emily  ?  Would  you,  would  Melanie  own  me  as 
her — her  friend  ?  Would  she  not  blush  to  hear  my  shame  ?  Would 
not  the  blood  of  my  grandsire,  who  fought  so  bravely  in  the  Revolution, 
burn  and  scorch  in  the  veins  of  his  dastardly  son,  if  I  refused  to  join 
the  brave  band  in  defence  of  my  native  village,  of  my  family,  and  of 
you,  sweet  Emily — and — and  Melanie  ?" 

"  And  if  you  are  defeated" — 

He  smiled  encouragingly. 

"  Why,  then,  Emily,  we  must  yield  like  men,  only  with  our  lives. 
But  we  shall  not  be  defeated — we  shall  conquer  !  Brave  hearts  and  de 
termined  hands  will  do  more  in  the  hour  of  conflict  than  closed  ranks 
and  mere  animal  force." 

"  And  when  is  this  dreadful  hour  to  come  ?  When  do  you  expect 
the  final  attack  ?" 

*  T  should  be  tempted  to  conceal  it,  little  trembler,"  replied  the  youth, 


REMAINS.  123 

"did  t  not  feel  that  I  have  already  too  long  neglected  the  chief  object 
of  my  visit.  From  the  reports  of  the  expresses  and  scouts  who  have 
returned,  we  expect  the  enemy  to-morrow  morning,  when  we  shall  pro 
bably  be  assailed  by  land  and  water.  This  place  will  be  the  scene  of 
bloodshed  and  confusion  :  you  cannot  remain  here — you  must  fly." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it !"  exclaimed  Emily ;  "  father  is  already  gone 
in  search  of  wagons  to  convey  our  effects ;  but  my  sister,  my  poor 
sister,  it  seems  almost  sacrilege  to  disturb  and  perhaps  hasten  her  part 
ing  moments  by  this  precipitation;  and  the  idea  is  so  distressing,  she 
longs  so  to  die  in  her  own  old  home.  I  can  read  it  in  every  look,  though 
she  will  not  name  it,  lest  we  subject  ourselves  to  danger  for  her  sake. 
You  know,  Walter,  we  should  have  fled  long  since,  as  at  the  time  of 
the  former  invasion,  but  ever  since  that  short  sojourn  with  strangers, 
she  has  seemed  to  fade  more  rapidly.  It  was  breaking  up  all  the  sweet 
associations  and  habits  which  alone  seem  binding  her  to  earth,  and  now, 
when  she  has  so  short  a  time  to  live,  oh !  it  is  a  cruel,  cruel  task  I"  and 
the  affectionate  girl  wept  faster  than  before. 

"  I  feel  it  all,  dear  Emily,"  said  Walter,  "  but  were  it  not  more  cruel 
that  her  gentle  spirit  should  part  amid  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  shouts 
of  the  combatants?  Then,  if  the  British  conquer,  the  last  sounds  which 
would  meet  her  ear,  would  be  those  of  insult  and  lawless  triumph.  No, 
no,  it  is  impossible — you  must  fly.  Would  to  God  my  duties  did  not 
call  me  for  the  space  of  two  hours,  that  I  might  see  you  all  in  safety, 
and  then  return,  with  a  light  heart,  to  my  post.  But  that  cannot  be ;  by 
especial  favour  I  have  obtained  leave  to  make  you  this  hasty  visit,  and, 
upon  my  return,  the  band  of  volunteers  which  I  have  joined  proceed  to 
the  bank  above  the  old  bridge,  the  station  deemed  most  advantageous 
for  this  section  of  our  small  force.  So  you  see,  dear  Emily,  I  cannot 
aid  you ;  but  you  say  your  father  is  gone — where,  and  with  what  hopes 
of  success  ?" 

"  He  started  before  daylight  this  morning,  to  obtain  more  easy  con 
veyance  for  our  dear  invalid  than  our  old-fashioned  family  vehicle  affords, 
and  wagons  to  convey  the  family  and  our  most  valuable  effects ;  but  you 
know  calamity  and  terror  make  us  selfish,  and  the  inhabitants  having 
fled,  he  found  not  the  proper  means  of  conveyance  for  dear  Melanie  in 
the  village,  and  he  hastened  on  some  ten  or  twelve  miles  in  the  country 
to  obtain  them,  and  we  do  not  expect  him  to  return  until  sunset." 

"  Good  heavens  !"  exclaimed  Walter,  "  the  British  forces  will  have 
advanced  between  him  and  our  village,  and  he  cannot  return  to  you. 
Why  did  I  not  know  this  before?" 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken,  when  Mrs.  Mentreville  appeared  on  the 
threshold  of  the  open  door,  at  the  porch  of  which  they  had  been  con 
versing.  Her  figure  was  about  the  middle  height  and  delicately  form- 
ed,  and  her  features  retained  the  traces  of  much  former  beauty,  but 
deep  and  unremitting  anxiety  had  wasted  a  form  naturally  feeble,  and 
an  expression  of  calm  but  unutterable  grief  was  seated  in  her  full  dark 
eye.  As  she  advanced,  she  caught  the  expression  of  alarm  in  the  face 
of  young  Selden  and  her  daughter,  and  after  the  first  silent  greeting  was 
over  she  inquired,  "  What  were  you*  saying,  Walter  ?  Do  not  fear  to 
tell  me  ;  nothing  can  alarm  me  now." 

In  brief  words  Walter  repeated  his  apprehensions  that  her  husband 
-night  be  prevented  from  returning,  and  their  flight  would  shortly  be- 
v>me  impossible. 


124  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  Then  we  will  remain,"  replied  Mrs.  Mentreville  firmly.  "  If  we 
are  successful,  all  is  well ;  if  we  fail,  the  British  officers  are  gentlemen 
ns  well  as  soldiers — they  have  mothers,  wives,  and  daughters — they  will 
protect  us.  I  only  fear  the  effect  of  the  excitement  and  turmoil  upon 
our  beloved  sufferer." 

Walter  sighed  deeply. 

"God  will  protect  you,  my  dear  madam.  I  wish  /could  trust  more 
implicitly  to  the  faith  and  honour  of  our  enemies.  But  Dr.  Mentreville 
may  still  return — all  may  yet  be  well.  My  term  of  absence  is  almost 
expired — can  I  not  see  Melanie  ?"  and  he  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a 
whisper,  as  if  he  feared  to  breathe  aloud  a  name  so  sacred. 

The  mother  replied  not,  but  silently  taking  the  hand  of  the  young 
man,  she  led  him  into  the  chamber  of  the  dying  girl.  It  seemed  not 
like  the  abode  of  death  and  disease.  The  spirit,  trembling,  hovering 
within  its  boundaries,  appeared  to  sanctify  its  resting  place.  There  was 
no  gloom,  or  darkness,  or  dreariness,  tor  they  found  no. place  in  the 
mind  of  Melanie,  and  why  should  they  surround  her  frame  without  ? 
She  was  all  purity,  gentleness,  elevation — and  an  air  of  soft  soothing  me 
lancholy  pervaded  the  scene  of  her  last  sufferings.  The  windows  open- 
ing  upon  the  river  were  closed,  for  there  were  sights  and  sounds  of  too 
animating  and  warlike  a  nature  to  meet  the  acute  eye  or  sensible  ear 
of  the  dying  maiden ;  but  a  casement  beside  her  couch  was  thrown 
back,  and  the  little  flower-garden  beneath  it,  which  she  had  so  often 
tended,  sent  up  the  perfume  of  its  last  fading  blossoms  into  her  chamber, 
while  the  quivering  poplar-trees  waved  and  sighed  her  requiem  before 
it,  and  the  luxuriant  vines  twined  their  small  tendrils  round  the  lattice. 
The  sunlight,  broken  and  softened  by  the  green  branches,  fell  in 
chastened  splendour  upon  the  floor,  and  tinged  with  a  yet  more  heaven 
ly  radiance  the  pale,  bright  features  of  Melanie.  The  couch  had  been 
placed  beside  the  open  casement,  that,  as  she  reclined  upon  its  pillows, 
she  might  yet  look  around  upon  the  scenes  so  dear  to  her  ;  and  well  do 
those  who  witnessed  remember  the  unearthly  loveliness  of  her  form  and 
face,  and  the  alternate  sadness — a  glorious  hope  in  its  expression,  as  she 
bade  a  mental  farewell  to  the  cherished  scenes  of  earth,  or  looked  for 
ward  to  the  blessed  home  which  she  was  seeking.  There  was  one  by 
her  side  who  watched  with  unwearied  care  and  childish  simplicity  every 
look  and  motion.  It  was  the  little  Alfred.  She  dearly  loved  the  ardent 
and  enthusiastic  boy,  and  his  young  heart  clung  with  all  its  ardour  and 
enthusiasm  to  the  one  who  most  deeply  awakened  and  cherished  the  in- 
cipient  romance  of  his  nature.  Now  that  he  beheld  her  thus  Kid  ing 
from  before  him,  he  hovered  for  ever  by  her  bed-side,  and  hun^  like 
one  entranced,  upon  each  trembling  accent  of  her  voice.  This  deep  and 
subdued  affection  had  unlocked  a  new  fountain  in  his  little  breast,  and 
it  flowed  on,  overwhelming  all  the  petty  selfishness  of  childhood,  and 
quenching  all  save  the  flame  of  military  ardour,  which  still  burnt  silent 
ly  and  slowly,  though  subdued  by  this  new  and  overpowering  sentiment 
of  love  for  his  gentle  and  intellectual  sister.  It  was  affecting  to  mark 
the  struggle  of  these  two  passions  in  his  young  mind.  At  the  sound  of 
the  distant  cannon,  the  roll  of  the  drum,  or  the  shouting  of  the  express 
as  he  rode  furiously  by,  he  would  start  from  his  seat,  while  his  eye 
kindled,  and  his  step  involuntarily  kept  pace  with  the  music ;  then,  a« 
the  thought  of  Melanie  rushed  over  his  mind,  he  would  turn  to  the  bed, 
take  her  hand  gently  in  his  own  little  palm,  and  whisper  softly,  •*  Sister, 


REMAINS.  -1J5 

did  it  disturb  you  ?  He  was  seated  on  his  little  stool  by  her  side,  cut 
ting  miniature  soldiers  from  the  little  branches  of  a  wild  rose-tree,  and 
watching  every  change  in  his  sister's  face,  when  Mrs.  Mentreville,  Emi 
ly,  and  Walter  entered.  Melanie  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow  on 
which  she  reclined,  and  extended  her  hand  feebly  as  Selden  approached. 

"  Walter,  this  is  kind,"  said  she ;  "  I  feared  I  should  not  see  you 
before  the  engagement,  and  then  we  may  never  meet  again."  The 
youth  spoke  not,  but  kissed  the  pale  hand  which  rested  in  his  own.  She 
continued  :  "  I  see  that  you  have  joined  them,  that  you  are  going  forth 
to  add  one  more  brave  heart  and  arm  to  our  adventurous  band.  I  knew 
it.  Go,  Walter,  go !  and  my  blessing  and  the  blessing  of  God  go  with 
you.  If  you  conquer,  you  will  find  your  reward  in  that  peace  which 
you  have  fought  to  bestow ;  if  you  fall,  it  will  be  in  the  performance  of 
your  duty,  and  you  will  share  the  grave  of  our  bravest  and  best.  Oh  !" 
she  added,  clasping  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  kindling  with  enthusiasm, 
11  Oh  !  that  the  shout  of  victory  might  be  the  last  earthly  sound  wafted 
to  my  spirit  as  it  seeks  the  portal  of  a  brighter  world  !  With  the  voice 
of  triumph  floating  around  its  pathway,  how  blessed  might  be  its  de 
parture  !"  There  was  a  moment's  deep  silence ;  every  heart  seemed  too 
full  for  speech,  till  the  soft  sweet  voice  of  Melanie  again  fell,  like  a  bird 
whisper,  upon  the  ears  of  the  motionless  group :  "  Walter,  do  not  deceive 
me  ;  is  it  safe  for  my  dear  mother  and  sister  to  remain  in  this  village, 
abandoned  as  it  will  be  to  the  soldiery  in  case  of  defeat  ?  God  only 
knows  how  deeply  I  have  longed  to  breathe  my  last  in  this  dear  home 
of  rny  infancy,  but,  for  the  love  of  mercy,  let  not  this*idle  fancy  endan 
ger  the  safety  or  comfort  of  those  I  love  dearer  than  myself."  Walter 
replied  that  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  fly,  and  that  her  father  had 
gone  in  search  of  the  easiest  means  of  conveyance  for  her.  She  sighed 
deeply.  "  My  own  dear  father ! — But  I  shall  not  need  him."  Imme 
diately  rallying  her  spirits,  while  the  faint  sunlight  smile,  so  peculiar  to 
herself,  played  over  her  features,  she  again  extended  her  hand.  "  Let 
me  not  detain  you,  Walter,  from  the  performance  of  those  duties  which 
now  devolve  upon  you.  Go !  When  I  hear  the  shouts  and  tumult  of 
the  battle,  I  will  pray  for  you,  if  on  earth — I  will  watch  over  you,  if 
released  from  its  fetters.  Oh !  do  not  look  so  sad !  If  I  saw  not  the 
mournful  faces  of  those  I  love,  my  soul  feels  so  happy  I  could  almost 
think  it  Paradise.  When  I  am  gone,  remember  me  as  a  dream,  a 
moonlight  vision  which  never  formed  itself  into  reality  till  it  had  fled  ; 
as  a  being  whose  shadow  has  flitted  over  the  past,  whose  life  is  only  in 
the  future.  I  have  only  two  hopes,  two  wishes  upon  earth  ;  one  for  my 
country,  the  other — "  She  paused,  and  gazed  fondly  upon  Walter  and 
Emily  as  they  stood  beside  her.  The  quick  glance  of  Emily  caught 
her  meaning,  and,  throwing  herself  upon  Melanie's  bosom,  she  looked 
i'nploringly  in  her  face.  "Fear  not,  my  sweet  blossom,"  whispered 
Melanie,  u  I  cannot,  will  not  say  aught  which  you  could  wish  unsaid." 
Then  turning  to  Selden,  she  said,  "  Farewell ;  may  God  protect  and 
prosper  you,  my  brother  .'" 

The  tears  rushed  to  the  young  man's  eyes  as  he  cast  one  long,  mourn 
ful  look  upon  the  delicate  and  spiritual  features,  and  kissed  the  small 
wan  fingers  which  he  again  pressed,  but  mastering  his  emotion  with  a 
strong  effort,  he  turned  from  the  room,  and  paused  a  moment  in  the 
hall,  ere  he  could  collect  sufficient  courage  to  leave  the  spot  which  con 
tained  a  being  so  lovely  (as  he  feared)  for  ever.  As  he  stood  thus,  with 


126  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

his  hand  upon  his  brow  and  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  floor,  a  slight  noise 
behind  him  attracted  his  attention.  He  turned  ;  it  was  little  Alfred.  He 
had  stolen  unperceived  from  the  room,  and  was  examining  Walter's 
rifle  with  looks  of  earnest  and  admiring  attention,  and  too  much  ab 
sorbed  to  be  conscious  of  the  owner's  presence ;  he  was,  in  fancy,  load 
ing,  presenting,  firing,  and  performing  all  the  military  evolutions  of 
which  he  was  master;  when  he  at  length  perceived  Walter,  he  sprang 
to  his  side,  and  raising  his  bright  face,  exclaimed  in  an  eager  whisper — 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Selden  !  Mr.  Selden  !  take  me  with  you  to  the  battle ;  I 
will  not  trouble  you  ;  I  will  load  your  gun,  and  I  will  take  my  little 
bow  and  arrow,  and  fight  as  the  Indians  do  ;  and  I  will  make  the  British 
run — do,  do — take  me  !" 

"  Will  you  not  be  afraid,  my  dear  boy  ?"  said  Walter,  scarcely  con 
scious  that  he  spoke.  , 

A  smile  of  contempt  curled  the  boy's  red  lip. 

"  Afraid  !  what  honourable  soldier  was  ever  afraid  ?"  and  forgetting 
his  caution  one  moment,  he  laughed  aloud.  The  spark  had  been  awa 
kened  in  his  little  bosom,  and  it  required  all  the  soft  dews  of  feeling  and 
reflection  to  quench  its  flame. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Alfred !"  said  Selden  ;  "  would  you  leave  your  sister, 
your  dear  sister,  and  perhaps  never  see  her  more  ?"  The  boy  looked 
down ;  his  heart  swelled,  and  his  lip  trembled  ;  but  his  desire  was  still 
strong.  "  Your  father  is  gone,  and  would  you  leave  your  mother  and 
sisters  defenceless?  What  will  become  of  them  if  the  British  conquer?" 

Here  was  a  double  motive ;  here  were  united  the  two  ruling  passions, 
and  he  clapped  his  hands  in  the  eagerness  of  his  joy. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  stay  and  protect  them  ;  and  mother  shall  call  me 
her  little  soldier,  and  sister  Emmy  will  not  be  afraid,  and  no  one  shall 
touch  .dear  Melanie."  And  he  stole  back  contented  to  the  stool  by  his 
bedside,  to  indulge  his  young  fancy,  in  dreams  of  war,  and  victory,  and 
defence. 

Walter  departed  ;  and  in  a  short  time  after  the  sound  of  martial 
music,  of  the  drum  and  fife,  and  the  trampling  of  many  feet,  disturbed 
the  silence  of  Melanie's  chamber.  Mrs.  Mentreville  and  Emily  cast  an 
anxious  glance  upon  the  apparently  sleeping  sufferer,  and  softly  raised  the 
curtain  of  the  window.  It  was  the  band  of  volunteers  marching  out  to 
their  post.  It  was  mostly  composed  of  the  young  men  of  the  village, 
led  by  an  older  and  more  experienced  commander.  Their  hearts  were 
beating  high  with  hope  and  expectation,  and  they  kept  pace  with  a 
proud  and  even  step  to  the  lively  national  air  which  swelled  in  loud 
strains  upon  the  breeze.  As  they  passed  the  house  of  Dr.  Mentreville, 
many  an  eye  was  turned,  and  many  a  glance  fixed  eagerly  upon  the 
beautiful  face  of  Emily,  as  she  leaned  from  the  window  ;  but  she  knew 
it.  not,  she  saw,  she  thought  of  but  one.  The  rest  passed  before  her  like 
a  colourless  picture,  and  she  beheld  the  form  of  Walter  Selden,  vivid 
and  distinct  from  the  pageantry  around  him.  His  eye  caught  hers, 
fixed  with  such  an  earnest  and  speaking  gaze  upon  his  features  !  Then 
first  flashed  the  truth  like  an  electric  spark  through  his  mind — the  idea 
that  that  young  and  guileless  maiden  might  feel  in  him  an  interest 
deeper  than  that  of  a  sister  or  a  friend.  A  burning  flush  rose  to  his 
cheeks  and  brow :  he  bowed  low ;  a  white  handkerchief  fluttered  from 
the  window,  and  it  was  again  closed.  All  had  passed  in  an  instant,  but 
tt  was  one  of  those  which  contained  more  of  existence  than  many  a 


REMAINS.  127 

long,  long  year:  in  that  one  look,  unseen  save  by  its  object,  the  uncon 
Bcious  girl  had  betrayed  the  secret  most  dear,  most  sacred  to  her  heart; 
the  one  which  she  had  fancied,  had  believed,  no  grief,  no  mental  torture 
could  force  her  to  reveal.  She  turned  from  the  window,  hid  her  blush 
ing  face  in  her  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Come  hither,  Emily,"  said  Melanie,  and  opened  her  arms,  while 
the  weeping  girl  threw  herself  into  them  and  sobbed  upon  her  sister's 
bosom.  Melanie  clasped  her  hands  over  the  silken  tresses  of  the  young 
mourner,  and  raised  her  head  as  in  prayer.  Oh !  that  I  had  a  purer 
pencil  than  those  of  earth  to  paint  the  forms,  the  expression,  of  those 
two  lovely  beings  !  Some  hovering  angel  might  have  transferred  that 
scene  to  his  immortal  tablets,  and  laid  it  up  among  the  records  of  heaven, 
as  one  bright  spot  shining  forth  from  the  dark  annals  of  misery  and 
crime.  Emily,  the  type  of  all  earth's  loveliest,  warm  with  its  noblest 
passions,  all  the  generous  impulses  of  youth,  weeping  upon  the  bosom 
of  a  dying  sister;  and  that  sister,  forgetful  of  herself,  of  all  beside,  pray 
ing  for  the  dear  one,  while  her  face  beamed  with  all  the  hallowed  love, 
of  the  gentle  compassion  of  a  purified  being,  and  her  dark  eyes  kindled 
with  a  glow  reflected  only  from  the  heaven  they  sought.  The  day 
rolled  on,  that  long,  long  dreary  day ;  the  village  was  still  in  the  tumult 
of  preparation  ;  the  expresses  rode  by  more  furious  than  ever ;  the 
British  forces  were  rapidly  approaching  the  village,  but  still  the  father, 
the  husband  came  not,  and  fears  for  his  safety  mingled  with  the  agony 
of  his  helpless  family.  Mrs.  Mentreville  was  a  woman  of  acutely  deli 
cate  and  sensitive  feelings,  but  they  were  mastered  and  controlled  by  a 
firm  judgment,  a  strong  and  independent  mind.  She  had  long  seen, 
with  that  anguish  which  a  mother  only  can  know,  the  certain  but 
gradual  decline  of  her  beloved  Melanie. 

This  child  had  been  her  favourite.  There  was  something  in  the 
pure  and  fofty  enthusiasm  of  her  character  which  touched  a  responsive 
chord  in  her  own  bosom.  What  others  had  never  seen,  or  only  marked 
as  the  idle  fancies  of  a  romantic  girl,  revealed  to  her  the  inmost  recesses 
of  a  nature  composed  of  deep  sensibilities,  quiet,  unobtrusive  affections, 
and  lofty  aspirations  after  something  higher  and  holier  than  earth.  She 
had  studied  her  carefully ;  she  loved  her  to  idolatry,  and  she  only  who 
nas  nurtured,  who  has  wept  over  the  death-bed  of  such  a  child,  can  un 
derstand  the  bitterness  of  grief  which  converted  her  whole  soul  into  a 
fountain  of  agony.  She  saw  how  deeply  it  distressed  Melanie  to  behold 
her  sorrow,  and  many  an  hour  banished  herself  from  her  bedside,  that 
spot  most  sacred  upon  earth,  that  she  might  drink  unperceived  from  the 
darkness  of  her  affliction,  and  in  solitude,  and  silence,  struggle  to  sub 
due  her  heart  into  accordance  with  the  will  of  her  Heavenly  Father. 

Night  drew  on;  the  sky,  which  had  been  clear,  became  suddenly 
overcast ;  the  sunbeams  no  longer  played  upon  the  quivering  poplars, 
or  sparkled  gladly  in  the  blue  depths  of  the  Saranac,  and  a  dark  thun 
der-gust  rolled  in  black  volumes  from  the  west.  The  wing  of  the  storm, 
as  it  slowly  unfolded  in  the  heavens,  cast  a  deep  leaden  shadow  on  the 
waves  of  the  Cham  plain ;  and  the  white  foam  gathered  upon  the  crest 
of  each  receding  billow,  as  it  rolled  with  an  angry  murmur  to  the  shore. 
The  thunder  growled  faintly  in  the  distance ;  pale  flashes  of  light  burst 
at  intervals  from  the  rent  clouds,  and  large  threatening  drops  fell  with 
their  sullen  patter  on  the  roof.  Every  thing  betokened  the  approach  of 
a.  fearful,  though  transient  storm  ;  and  a  fervent  prayer  for  the  safety  of 


128  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON 

her  husband  burst  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Mentreville,  as  she  closed  the 
door  of  the  cottage  and  returned  to  the  chamber  of  Melanie.  As  the 
tempest  strengthened,  the  lightning  streamed  in  with  broad  and  livid 
flashes,  and  the  thunder  rolled  on  its  tremendous  pathway  ;  each  crash 
more  loud  and  terrific  than  the  last.  Mrs.  Mentreville,  seated  on  Me- 
lanie's  couch,  supported  her  head  upon  her  bosom,  and  an  expression  of 
deep  awe  rested  upon  her  pale  features.  Emily  knelt  by  the  bedside 
and  concealed  her  face  in  its  drapery,  and  even  the  stout  heart  of  little 
Alfred  quailed,  as  peal  after  peal  burst  and  gleamed  above  them  and 
around  them.  He  lisped  no  word  of  fear,  but  grasped  the  hand  of  Me- 
lanie  in  his  own,  gazed  wistfully  upon  her  placid  and  spiritual  features, 
as  if  something  whispered  within  him  that  no  danger  could  assail,  no 
bolts  from  the  artillery  of  heaven  descend  upon  a  form  and  soul  so  hea 
venly.  No  terror,  no  dread  was  on  the  face  of  Melanie ;  resting  upon 
her  mother's  bosom,  she  gazed  on  the  dark  rolling  masses  of  the  tern- 
pest-cloud,  and  trembled  not  at  the  livid  flames,  or  the  pealings  of  the 
loud-voiced  thunder;  her  soul  seemed  bursting  from  her  eyes  in  one 
long  gaze  of  solemn  adoration  ;  her  spirit  was  lifted  above  the  warring 
elements ;  it  was  casting  its  burden  of  deep  and  silent  worship  at  the 
footstool  of  the  Almighty.  The  storm  for  an  instant  paused:  the  thun 
der-peals  died  away  in  a  low  muttering  growl,  and  an  awful  silence 
reigned  in  the  heavens  and  on  the  earth;  the  angel  of  the  tempest  had 
retired  'neath  the  veil  of  blackness,  to-  gather  the  scattered  thunderbolts 
in  his  hand,  and  to  wreathe  the  winged  lightnings  on  his  brow.  Again 
he  came  upon  his  wild  career — on,  on,  in  more  terrific  majesty  ;  the 
dark  cloud  parted  with  a  fearful  chasm,  while  from  its  bosom  poured  a 
sheet  of  flame,  broad,  livid,  terrible,  and  a  fierce  crash,  as  of  a  shattered 
world,  pealed  along  the  heavens.  A  low  shriek  burst  from  the  lips  of 
Emily,  and  Alfred  pressed  his  sister's  hand  with  a  convulsive  energy. 
The  grasp  recalled  Melanie's  wandering  senses ;  she  drew  him  closer 
to  her  bosom,  and  whispered  in  accents  low  but  distinct,  heard  like  an 
angel's  murmur  amid  the  roaring  of  the  storm,  "  Fear  not,  my  little 
brother;  it  is  the  same  voice  which  breathes  in  melody  among  the 
flowers  of  spring ;  the  same  hand  which  paints  the  rainbow  and  the  rose. 
Fear  not,  it  is  your  Father  and  your  God  !  He  sendeth  forth  the  spirit  of" 
his  love,  and  heaven  and  earth  are  bathed  in  the  fountain  of  its  glory, 
he  stretcheth  out  the  arm  of  his  power  and  the  hills  tremble  and  are 
shaken.  Yea,"  she  added,  clasping  her  hands  and  looking  upwards 
with  -an  expression  of  fervent  solemnity,  "  yea  ;  thou  only  art  great  who 
coverest  thyself  with  light  as  with  a  garment ;  who  stretchest  out  the 
heavens  like  a  curtain  ;  who  makes  the  clouds  thy  chariot ;  who  walkest 
upon  the  wings  of  the  wind." 

It  was  midnight.  The  storm  had  departed  as  it  came ;  the  wind 
sighed  mournfully,  yet  sweet  amid  the  dripping  branches  ;  the  black 
masses  rolled  from  the  firmament,  and  the  moon,  struggling  through 
their  gloom,  cast  her  feeble  and  trembling  beams  on  the  still  agitated 
waters ;  the  waves  rose  and  fell  with  a  faint  wailing  murmur,  like  the  sobs 
of  a  weeping  child ;  and  the  hearts  of  the  anxious  mourners  seemed  to  beat 
in  unison  with  their  sad  cadence.  A  taper  was  burning  on  the  hearth 
in  Melanie's  chamber,  but  the  curtain  was  withdrawn,  and  the  pure 
cold  rays  of  the  moon  trembled  faintly  upon  a  being,  pure  and  heavenly 
as  themselves.  She  slept — in  the  hush  of  that  midnight  hour,  surround 
ed  by  those  best  loved  on  earth,  she  slept.  Oh  !  the  peace,  the  unearth- 


REMAINS.  129 

ly  beauty  of  that  sleep.  Her  head  lay  back  upon  the  pillow,  her  bright 
dark  hair  shaded  with  its  rich  tresses  the  exquisite  features  of  her  face ; 
the  serenity  of  heaven  seemed  resting1  on  her  broad,  pale  brow ;  her  dark 
eyelids  lay  motionless  on  their  snowy  pillow,  and  nought  could  reveal 
to  the  beholder  that  he  gazed  on  an  inhabitant  of  earth,  save  the  brilliant 
flush  which  mantled  upon  her  cheek,  as  if  death,  fearing  utterly  to  de 
stroy  a  work  so  beautiful,  had  breathed  a  deeper  crimson  on  the  fresh 
rose  of  health,  and  placed  it  'mid  the  lilies  of  disease.  Emily  was 
kneeling,  beside  her,  her  face  bathed  in  tears,  and  her  eyes  now  bent 
with  a  wistful  sadness  upon  her  sleeping  sister,  now  raised  as  in  prayer 
to  Heaven ;  a  petition  seemed  trembling  upon  her  lips,  but  it  would 
wing  its  way  no  farther ;  she  dared  not  pray  for  fetters  to  enchain  the 
struggling  spirit ;  she  could  not  even  wish  to  recall  the  fluttering  priso 
ner  to  its  cage  of  clay,  and  the  prayer  died  unuttered  on  her  tongue. 
Then  her  mind  wandered  far  away  from  that  shaded  room  and  its  mid 
night  stillness.  She  saw  the  morning  dawn  above  the  opposing  ranks ; 
she  heard  the  shouts  of  the  commanders,  the  sharp  report  of  the  rifles, 
and  the  deafening  roar  of  the  cannon,  and  she  saw  one  form  amid  the 
thousands,  and,  as  when  she  last  beheld  it,  she  saw  that  form  alone  ;  she 
marked  his  every  movement,  and  when  her  quick  fancy  beheld  the 
"  leaden  death,"  flying  around  him,  her  breath  was  checked  convulsive 
ly,  and  the  colour  went  and  came  upon  her  cheek,  and  then  with  the 
swiftness  and  waywardness  of  thought,  her  mind  returned  to  their  last 
meeting,  their  last  look  ;  and  her  face  became  one  burning  flush  when 
she  thought  how  much,  how  all  loo  much  that  look  betrayed.  As  she 
raised  her  head  from  the  counterpane  in  which  it  had  been  buried,  her 
eyes  again  rested  upon  the  features  of  Melanie,  and  still  more  deeply 
did  she  blush  at  her  own  selfishness  in  thinking  of  aught  beside  the 
cherished  sufferer  and  the  duty  she  owed  to  her  beloved  mother.  Where 
was  that  mother  now  ?  Why  was  not  she  too  bending  over  the  slum 
bers  of  the  dying  one  ?  Oh !  had  you  asked  her  bleeding  heart,  an 
answer  had  been  poured  forth  in  tones  of  the  bitterest  agony  which  the 
hand  of  sorrow  could  draw  forth  from  its  broken  strings.  Grief — grief, 
too  deep  for  utterance,  too  violent  for  restraint,  had  driven  her  from  the 
bedside  of  Melanie.  With  a  burning  brain  and  throbbing  nerves,  she 
had  stolen  unnoticed  from  the  side  of  Emily,  and  stepped  forth  upon  the 
broad  piazza,  to  breathe  for  one  moment  the  coolness  of  the  midnight 
air ;  it  soothed,  it  refreshed  her,  and  throwing  herself  upon  the  seat  be 
neath  Melanie's  window,  a  burst  of  tears  relieved  her  agitated  feelings. 
The  scene  was  solemn,  and  to  the  reflecting  mind  it  was  one  of  deep 
interest,  for  the  shade  of  an  eventful  morrow  seemed  hanging  darkly 
over  it ;  torches  were  glancing  to  and  fro  in  the  distant  fort ;  boats  were 
crossing  and  recrossing  the  river ;  the  bridges  were  destroyed,  and  the 
voice  of  the  sentinel  was  heard  at  intervals,  as  he  loudly  demanded  the 
Countersign  from  some  belated  traveller.  In  addition  to  her  other  cares, 
Mrs.  Mentreville  was  now  seriously  alarmed  for  the  safety  of  her  hus 
band  :  at  every  casual  footstep,  at  every  shadow  which  obscured  the 
moonlight,  she  started  from  her  seat,  and  an  anxious  "  is  it  he  ?"  trem 
bled  unconsciously  upon  her  lips.  In  the  silent  solemnity  of  that  mid 
night  hour  her  mind  reverted  to  her  own  early  days,  when  loving  and 
beloved,  she  had  first  entered  that  humble  cottage,  a  youthful  and  happy 
wife,  and  when  after  the  lapse  of  years  she  had  still  found  herself  an 
adored  and  cherished  a*olJi?r,  the  centre  of  all  the  social  affections,  the 
11 


130  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


parent  tree  which  shadowed,  nourished,  and  supported  the  fresh  young 
lendrils  that  twined  around  it;  now  there  was  a  deep,  deep  void  within  her 
heart.  Death  had  breathed  upon  her  paradise ;  he  had  laid  his  cold 
hand  upon  those  delicate  vines ;  he  had  torn  them  asunder;  had  gather 
ed  all  but  three  young  blossoms  to  twine  around  and  wither  on  his 
clay-cold  brow.  Her  affection  for  the  dead  was  now  transferred  with 
tenfold  ardour  to  the  living;  the  buoyancy  and  hope  of  youth  was  gone; 
but  love,  a  mother's  love,  can  never  perish,  and  her  spirit,  chastened  and 
subdued  by  the  hand  of  affliction,  clung  to  Melanie  as  to  some  guardian 
angel,  some  being  of  superior  mould,  who  seemed  unfitted  for  the  cares 
and  bufferings  of  life,  and  yet  foreboding  fancy  had  never  dared  to 
whisper  she  could  die  ;  and  now  the  dreadful  summons  had  arrived  ; 
she  saw  it  in  the  flushed  and  fevered  cheek,  the  throbbing  pulse,  the  eye 
of  piercing  brilliancy  ;  she  heard  it  in  the  tremulous  accents  of  her  be 
loved  one, — they  mingled  all  the  sweetness  of  heaven,  and  all  the  sad 
ness  of  earth;  and  the  memory  of  those  tones  stole  over  her  mind  like  a 
soothing  murmur,  as  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  the  tears 
stole  silently  between  them.  She  was  startled  from  her  revery  by  a 
sound  like  the  distant  trampling  of  horses'  feet ;  she  turned — the  sound 
came  nearer — "  It  is  he  !"  and  she  rushed  down  the  steps  of  the  piazza, 
and  with  her  hand  upon  the  gate  leaned  anxiously  over  the  little  en 
closure.  She  scarcely  breathed.  It  was  a  horseman  riding  furiously 
down  the  little  hill  to  the  right,  and  as  he  passed  in  the  moonlight,  hope 
could  deceive  her  no  longer ;  it  was  not  he,  it  was  the  express ;  he 
dashed  along  through  the  row  of  sentinels,  and  waving  his  cap  in  the 
air,  his  hoarse  voice  broke  painfully  upon  the  silence  of  the  night. 

44  The  enemy  !  the  enemy  !"  he  shouted,  "  they  have  come  on  by 
forced  marches ;  they  are  now  encamped  within  two  miles ;  they  will 
be  here  by  daybreak,"  and  he  dashed  on,  arousing  the  sleeping  echoes, 
till  the  trampling  of  his  horse's  feet,  and  the  tones  of  his  stentorian 
voice  were  alike  lost  in  the  distance.  Mrs.  Mentreville  slowly  and  me 
chanically  returned  to  the  piazza,  and  a  thousand  agonizing  thoughts 
swept  like  a  burning  torrent  through  her  brain.  The  British  army  was 
rapidly  approaching ;  the  conflict  would  probably  take  place  at  day 
break  ;  her  husband  had  gone  to  secure  them  a  place  of  refuge,  but  he 
returned  not;  perhaps  he  was  a  prisoner  in  the  British  camp,  and  she, 
a  helpless  woman,  with  one  young  and  timid  daughter,  and  one,  so  dear 
a  one,  just  dying,  was  left  alone  in  the  deserted  village,  exposed  to  the 
cruel  insults  of  the  British  soldiery,  should  they  conquer,  and  to  all  the 
terror  and  tumult  of  a  desperate  conflict  even  should  they  fail.  Oh  ! 
that  was  a  night  of  agony,  and  never,  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
after  life,  did  one  thought,  one  feeling  then  endured  fade  from  the  volume 
of  her  memory.  As  the  thoughts  of  danger  and  the  necessity  of  exer 
tion  passed  through  her  mind,  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and 
whispered  within  herself,  "This  weakness  will  not  do;  I  have  a  part 
lo  perform.  I  am  the  only  guardian  of  my  three  dear  ones;  we  cannot 
i!y,  and  if  the  British  conquer,  as  I  fear  they  must,  I  will  appeal  for 
protection  to  their  officers  !  they  have  wives  and  children."  *  * 
******** 


POETICAL   REMAINS. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

MOTHER  !  thou  bid'st  me  touch  the  lyre, 
And  wake  its  sweetest  tones  for  thee  ; 

To  kindle  fancy's  dying  fire, 
And  light  the  torch  of  poetry. 

Mother !  how  sweet  the  word,  how  pure, 
As  if  from  heaven  the  accents  came ; 

If  aught  can  rouse  the  dormant  soul, 
It  is  that  cherish'd,  honour'd  name. 

Deep  in  the  heart's  recess  it  dwells; 

It  lives  with  being's  earliest  dawn ; 
With  reason's  light  expands  and  swells, 

And  dies  with  parting  life  alone. 

Mother  !  't  is  childhood's  first  essay, 

Breathed  in  its  trembling  tones  of  love  ; 

It  lights  the  heart,  through  life's  long  way, 
And  points  to  holier  worlds  above  ! 

Tl  is  a  name,  whose  mighty  spell 
Can  draw  the  chain'd  affections  forth, 

Can  rouse  the  feelings  from  their  cell, 
And  give  each  purer  impulse  birth. 

Then  will  I  wake  my  sleeping  muse, 

And  strive  to  breathe  my  thoughts  in  song, 

Though  sweetest  strains  must  fail  to  speak 
The  heart's  affections,  deep  and  strong. 


PRIDE  AND  MODESTY. 

JUST  where  a  wild  and  rapid  stream 
Roll'd  back  its  waves  in  seeming  pride, 

Flowers  of  each  softly  varying  hue 
Were  sweetly  blooming,  side  by  side. 

Shaded  by  many  a  bending  tree, 

Their  glowing  cups  with  dew-drops  fill'd, 

Nature's  fair  daughters  blushing  stood, 
And  all  their  fragrant  sweets  distill'd. 

(131) 


132  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Oh,  'twas  a  wild  and  lovely  spot, 

Which  well  might  seem  a  spirit's  home ! 

A  lone  retreat,  a  noiseless  grot, 

Where  earth's  rude  blasts  could  never  come. 

Within  a  broad  and  open  glade, 
A  tulip  spread  its  gaudy  hue, 

While,  'neath  the  myrtle's  clustering  shade, 
A  sweetly-drooping  lily  grew. 

As  the  light  zephyrs  o'er  them  swept, 
And  heighten'd  many  a  rosy  glow, 

A  strange,  deep  murmur  round  them  crept, 
Like  distant  music,  wild  and  low. 

'T  was  the  gay  tulip's  fragrant  breath, 
Which  many  an  answering  echo  woke, 

As  to  her  lowly  neighbour,  thus, 

With  proud  and  haughty  mien,  she  spoke : 

"  Away !  frail  trembling  flower !  nor  dare 
To  droop  beside  my  glittering  form ! 

Behold  how  bright  my  garments  are, 
And  mark  each  sweetly  varying  charm ! 

"  Then  hie  thee  to  some  lonely  nook, 
Nor  show  thy  pallid  features  here ; 

Go,  murmur  to  some  babbling  brook, 
Where  like  thyself  each  scene  is  drear ! 

"  Hast  thou  assurance  thus  to  gaze 
On  one  who  nature's  self  beguiles  ? 

Hence !  haste  thee  hence  !  and  hide  that  face. 
Where  parent  nature  never  smiles." 

She  ceased — a  sad,  sweet  whispering  rose, 
Which  thrill'd  the  zephyrs  list'ning  ear ; 

Soft  as  an  angel's  gentlest  tone, 
Too  heavenly  for  this  mortal  sphere. 

'T  was  the  pale  lily's  silvery  voice, 
Which  rose  in  low  and  thrilling  tone, 

Like  breath  of  wild  Eolian  lyre, 

Moved  by  the  wind-god's  tenderest  moa.i . 

"Great  queen !"  the  lovely  gem  replied, 
u  I  view  thy  charms,  I  own  their  power, 

And  void  of  envy,  shame,  or  pride, 
Admire  thy  beauties  of  an  hour. 

"  Full  well  I  know  my  pallid  brow 
Can  never  match  the  hues  of  thine ; 

Nor  my  white  robes  the  colours  wear, 
Which  on  thy  dazzling  garments  shine. 

"  But  the  same  hand  hath  form'd  us  both ; 

And  heaven-born  nature  smiled  as  sweet 
As  on  thy  form,  when  the  low  flower 

Was  peeping  from  its  green  retreat. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  133 

*'  Here  was  I  planted  !  let  me  here 

Still  live  in  purity  and  peace; 
The  lily's  eye  shall  never  weep 

I'o  gain  the  tulip's  gaudy  grace. 

"  But  oh,  forget  not,  'mid  the  pomp 

Of  earthly  kingdom,  pride,  and  joy, 
That  boasted  beauty  must  decay, 

And  withering  age  thy  pleasures  cloy. 

"Receive  the  lily's  kind  advice, — 

Retire  from  scenes  of  public  life, 
And  pass  thy  days  in  solitude, 

Apart  from  vanity  and  strife." 

While  the  sweet  murmur  past  away, 

The  stately  rose  as  umpire  came ; 
The  lily  shunn'd  her  proud  survey, 

The  lordly  tulip  bent  for  shame. 

In  accents  bland,  but  nobly  firm, 

The  queen-like  flow'ret  soon  replied, 
In  tones  which  charm'd  the  tender  flower, 

And  humbled  more  the  tulip's  pride. 

"  Come  hither,  pure  and  lovely  one, 

With  thee  no  garden  plant  can  vie ; 
Not  e'en  the  tulip's  gaudy  hues 

Match  with  thy  stainless,  spotless  dye. 

"  Come  to  my  bosom,  emblem  fair 

Of  heavenly  virtue's  fairer  form  ! 
Here  let  me  learn  each  modest  grace, 

While  here  I  hush  each  wild  alarm. 

"  Come  to  my  bosom !  what  so  pure, 

So  lovely  as  a  modest  one, 
Who  flies  from  folly's  glittering  lure, 

And  shuns  the  bright  meridian  sun ! 

"Let  the  proud  tulip  glitter  still, 

Robed  in  her  scarf  of  varying  hue; 
Alone  'neath  nature's  eye  we'll  rest, 

Cheer'd  by  her  smile,  and  nurtured  by  her  dew." 


VERSIFICATION  OF  THE  TWENTY-THIRD  PSALM. 

MY  shepherd  is  the  faithful  Lord, 
I  shall  not  want,  I  trust  his  word  ; 
He  lays  me  down  in  pastures  green, 
He  leads  me  by  the  lake  serene  ; 
Comforts  my  soul,  and  points  rne  on 
To  pure  religion's  holy  shrine. 
11* 


134  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


I  wander  through  the  vale  of  death, 
Yet  he  supports  me  still; 

He  will  receive  rny  dying  breath 
If  I  perform  his  will. 

Even  in  the  presence  of  my  foes 

He  doth  a  meal  of  plenty  spread ; 
My  cup  with  blessings  overflows, 

With  oil  he  does  anoint  my  head. 
1831. 


TO  BROTHER  L . 

THE  vessel  lightly  skims  the  wave, 
And  bounds  across  the  waters  blue, 

Near  shores  where  trees  luxuriant  spread, 
And  roses  wildly  blooming  grew. 

Yon  islands  see  !  so  fair  and  bright, 
Like  gerns  upon  the  azure  sea  ; 

The  waters  dance  like  forms  of  light, 
And  waft  my  brother  dear  from  me. 

1831. 


FOR  MAMMA. 

THE  rippling  stream  serenely  glides, 
And  rising  meets  the  swelling  tides ; 
The  fleeting  lights  of  heaven  around 
Shine  brightly  o'er  the  vast  profound. 

The  moon  hath  hid  her  silvery  face, 
So  mark'd  with  beauty  and  with  grace, 
Majestic  when  she  rides  on  high, 
A  gem  upon  the  azure  sky  ! 

My  thoughts,  oh  Lord,  then  turn  to  thee, 
Of  what  thou  art  and  I  shall  be ; 
Thy  outstretch'd  wings  around  me  spread, 
And  guard  with  love  my  hapless  head. 
1831. 


TO  MAMMA. 

FAREWELL,  dear  mother,  for  awhile 
I  must  resign  thy  plaintive  smile ; 
May  angels  watch  thy  couch  of  wo, 
And  joys  unceasing  round  thee  flow. 

May  the  almighty  Father  spread 
His  sheltering  wings  above  thy  head. 
It  is  not  long  that  we  must  part, 
Then  cheer  thy  downcast,  drooping  heart. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

Remember,  oh  remember  me, 
Unceasing  is  my  love  for  thee ! 
When  death  shall  sever  earthly  ties, 
When  thy  loved  form  all  senseless  lies. 

Oh  that  my  soul  with  thine  could  flee, 
And  roam  through  wide  eternity  ; 
Could  tread  with  thee  the  courts  of  heaven. 
And  count  the  brilliant  stars  of  even. 

Farewell,  dear  mother,  for  awhile 
I  must  resign  thy  plaintive  smile ; 
May  angels  watch  thy  couch  of  woe. 
And  joys  unceasing  round  thee  flow. 
1831 


TO  A  FLOWER. 

THE  blighting  hand  of  winter 

Has  laid  thy  glories  low  ; 
Oh,  where  is  all  thy  beauty  ? 

Where  is  thy  freshness  now  ? 

•Summer  has  pass'd  away, 

With  every  smiling  scene, 
And  nature  in  decay 

Assumes  a  mournful  mien. 

How  like  adversity's  rude  blast 

Upon  the  helpless  one, 
When  hope's  gay  visions  all  have  passed^ 

And  to  oblivion  gone. 

Yet  winter  has  some  beauties  left, 
Which  cheer  my  heart  forlorn  ; 

Nature  is  not  of  charms  bereft, 
Though  shrouded  by  the  storm. 

I  see  the  sparkling  snow; 

I  view  the  mountain  tops ; 
I  mark  the  frozen  lake  below* 

Or  the  dark  rugged  rocks 

How  truly  grand  the  scene! 

The  giant  trees  are  bare, 
No  fertile  meadows  intervene. 

No  hillocks  fresh  and  fair ; 

But  the  cloud-capp'd  mountains  rise, 
Crown'd  with  purest  whiteness, 

And  mingle  with  the  skies, 

That  shine  with  azure  brightness. 

And  solitude,  that  friend  so  dear 

To  each  reflecting  mind, 
Her  residence  has  chosen  here 
To  soothe  the  heart  refined. 
1831. 


136  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


STANZAS. 

ROLL  on,  roll  on,  bright  orb  of  day  ; 

Roll  on,  thou  beauteous  queen  of  even  • 
Ye  stars,  that  ever  twinkling  play, 

And  sweetly  grace  the  azure  heaven. 

Roll  on,  until  thy  God's  command 

Shall  rend  the  sky  and  tear  the  earth , 

Till  he  stretch  forth  his  mighty  hand 
To  check  the  voice  of  joyous  mirth. 

He  spread  the  heavens  as  a  scroll, 

He  made  the  sea,  he  form'd  the  world , 

The  heavens  again  shall  backward  roll, 
And  mountains  from  their  base  be  hurl'd. 

He  form'd  the  lovely  verdant  green, 
And  aught  of  fair  that  e'er  has  been ; 
These  beauties  all  shall  pass  away, 
And  in  one  shapeless  ruin  lay. 

But  God  in  his  glory,  the  God  of  the  sky, 
Will  continue  through  endless  eternity  ; 
For  ever  untainted,  all  holy  and  pure, 
His  love  and  his  mercy  shall  ever  endure. 


ESSAY  ON  NATURE. 

How  just,  how  pure,  how  holy  is  the  great  Creator  of  the  universe  f 
When  1  gaze  upon  all  the  wonders  of  nature,  the  rippling  stream,  the  dis 
tant  mountain,  the  rugged  rock,  or  the  gently  sloping  hill,  my  mind 
turns  to  the  first  Great  Cause  of  all;  the  Author  of  this  mingled  beauty, 
grandeur,  and  simplicity.  God  made  this  beautiful  world  for  us,  that 
we  might  be  happy,  and  why  are  we  not  so  ?  Because  we  do  not  seek 
real  happiness.  We  are  striving  to  obtain  worldly  pleasure  ;  but  what 
is  that,  compared  with  the  happiness  of  a  child  of  God?  He  feels  and 
knows  that  his  Saviour  is  ever  dear ;  he  weeps  over  his  past  follies  with 
a  sweet  consciousness  that  they  are  all  forgiven  ;  that  the  kind  Shepherd 
has  brought  back  his  lost  sheep  to  the  fold.  He  trusts  in  the  goodness 
of  his  Creator.  His  faith  is  firm  in  the  blessed  Saviour  who  died  for 
him  ;  he  has  charity  for  all,  love  for  all.  Such  is  the  Christian  !  His 
earthly  sorrows  seem  light,  for  his  thoughts  are  continually  upon  his 
just  Preserver.  What  is  man,  frail,  feeble  man,  but  a  flower  of  the 
field,  that  fades  away  with  the  rude  blast  of  the  autumnal  storm !  How 
infinite  the  love  which  sustains  him ! 

Pittsburgh,  1832. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  137 

VERSES  WRITTEN  WHEN  NINE  YEARS  OF  AGE. 
HOME. 

YONDER  orb  of  dazzling  light 
Sinks  beneath  the  robe  of  night, 
And  the  moon  so  sweetly  pale, 
Waits  to  lift  her  silver  veil. 
One  by  one  the  stars  appear, 
Glittering  in  the  heavenly  sphere, 
And  sparkling  in  their  bright  array, 
Welcome  in  the  close  of  day. 
But  home,  that  sacred,  pure  retreat, 
Where  dwells  my  heart  in  all  that's  sweet, 
And  my  own  stream,  where  oft  I  've  stray'd, 
And  mark'd  the  beams  that  o'er  it  play'd, 
Is  far  away,  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
Far  from  my  fondly  straining  view. 
1832. 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  GOD. 

WITH  the  lightning  his  throne,  and  the  thunder  his  voice, 

He  rides  through  the  troubled  sky ; 
He  bids  all  his  angels  in  heaven  rejoiee, 

And  thunders  his  wrath  from  on  high  ! 
u  On  the  wing  of  the  whirlwind  he  fearlessly  rides," 
O'er  the  heavens,  the  earth,  and  the  ocean  he  strides ; 
The  breath  of  his  nostrils  the  lightning's  flame, 
All  nature  re-echoes  his  powerful  name ! 


FROM  THE  FORTY-SECOND  PSALM. 

WHY  is  my  bosom  fill'd  with  fear, 

And  why  cast  down  my  troubled  soul  ? 

Is  not  thy  God,  thy  Saviour  near, 
And  will  he  not  thy  fate  control  ? 

How  mighty  is  my  Saviour's  hand, 

How  powerful  his  word, 
And  how  can  I,  a  sinful  worm, 

Address  him  as  my  Lord  ? 

Jehovah  sends  his  mighty  breath 

Across  the  placid  sea ; 
The  foaming  waters  proudly  whirl, 

As  longing  to  be  free. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep  aloud. 
The  raging  billows  follow  thee  , 

Thou  send'st  the  roaring  waves  abroad, 
Which  rush  o'erwhelming  over  me. 


138  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON, 

Yet  at  the  great  I  AM'S  command, 
For  me,  the  object  of  his  care, 

The  shouting  waters  silent  stand  ; 

He  still  shall  listen  to  my  prayer. 
1833. 


HYMN  OF  THE  FIRE- WORSHIPPERS. 

WELCOME,  oh  welcome,  god  of  day  ! 

Thy  presence  gives  us  peace  ! 
All  hail,  eternal,  glorious  king, 

Thy  light  shall  never  cease ! 

Transcendent  Sun !  oh  list  to  one 
Whose  heart  is  fill'd  with  love; 

Let  the  sweet  airs  lift  high  our  prayers 
To  thee  our  God  above. 

Pure  orb  of  light !  resplendent,  bright ; 

Oh,  who  may  cope  with  thee  ? 
And  who  may  dare  to  view  thee  there, 

And  never  bend  the  knee? 

Before  thy  ray  the  guilty  flee, 

And  dread  thy  cheerful  beam, 
Lest  thy  fierce  eye  their  crimes  descry, 

And  chill  hope's  trembling  gleam. 

To  thee  we  bow,  for  on  thy  brow 

Is  majesty  impress'd, 
Glory  thy  shroud,  thy  throne  the  cloud, 

Which  circles  o'er  thy  breast. 

The  blushing  flower  will  own  thy  power ; 

It  blooms  alone  for  thee ; 
And  though  so  frail,  oh  hear  my  wail, 

My  blessed  guardian  be ! 

When  the  first  ray  of  brilliant  day 

Illumes  the  hill,  the  plain, 
The  songsters  raise  a  hymn  of  praise, 

Oh,  listen  to  my  strain. 

When  thy  loved  form,  which  braves  the  otorm, 

In  ocean  disappears, 
One  mournful  cry  ascends  on  high, 

The  night  is  spent  in  tears. 

But  lest  we  mourn  for  thy  return, 

And  pine  away  in  grief, 
The  orb  of  night  supplies  thy  light, 

And  gives  us  sweet  relief. 

Then  on  my  head,  Eternal !  shed 

Thy  warmest,  purest  beam, 
And  to  my  heart  content  impart, 

With  gratitude  serene. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  139 


Then,  when,  at  last,  my  sorrows  past, 
With  thee  in  light  I'll  roam, 

And  by  thy  side  securely  ride, 

Thy  bosom  for  my  home. 
1833. 


ENIGMA. 

SOMETIMES  I  grace  the  maiden's  brow, 
And  lend  her  cheek  a  brighter  glow ; 
Or  grim  and  strong,  secure  the  wall 
Of  many  a  castle  gate  from  all. 
The  palace  boasts  me  always  there, 
To  guard  the  walls  and  bless  the  fair; 
The  meanest  cot  I  ne'er  disdain, 
Yet  guard  the  portals  of  the  brain. — LOCK. 


TO  A  LITTLE  COUSIN  AT  CHRISTMAS. 

MY  dear  little  George,  oh  did  you  but  know 
How  delighted  I'd  be  could  I  meet  with  you  now  ; 
Oh  could  I  but  print  on  your  forehead  a  kiss, 
To  thy  Margaret  the  moment  were  unalloy'd  bliss. 
Thy  flowers  and  acorns  I've  cherished  with  care, 
And  to  me  they  have  seem'd  more  than  lovely  and  fair, 
For  thoughts  of  the  friends  I  have  left  far  behind, 
And  sweet  recollections  will  crowd  on  my  mind, 
As  I  gaze  on  the  tokens  presented  by  you, 
And  the  sweet  little  letter  you've  written  me  too  ; 
I  fancy  I  see  thee  on  bright  Christmas  day, 
With  Kitty  and  mother  all  sportive  at  play, 
Admiring  the  bounty  St.  Nicholas  gave 
To  the  boy  who  was  worthy  his  counsel  so  grave. 
Oh  could  I  but  join  thee,  my  beautiful  boy, 
In  thy  holiday  pastimes  and  innocent  joy  ! 
Is  "  Aunty"  still  working  on  bonnets  and  capes  ? 
Or  examining  flowers  of  all  sizes  and  shapes? 
Does  Aiken's  Collection  still  lie  on  her  lap, 
While  her  fingers  are  plaiting  some  ruffle  or  cap  ? 
Is  thy  "  dear  little  mother"  still  lively  and  gay, 
Pleasing  and  pleased,  as  when  I  came  away  ? 
And  Annie  and  Kitty,  and  grandfather  too  ? 
But  'tis  time,  my  dear  George,  I  bade  you  adieu. 
Tell  uncle,  and  brother,  and  all  whom  I  love, 
My  letters  alone  my  affection  must  prove. 
1833. 


140  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

ON  READING  CHILDE  HAROLD. 

THE  rainbow's  bright  and  varying  hue, 
Mix'd  with  the  soft  celestial  blue, 
The  brightest,  fairest  stars  of  night, 
Which  shed  their  radiance  pure  and  bright, 
If  mingled  in  a  wreath,  would  be 
Too  poor  an  offering  for  thee. 

The  morning  sun  should  deck  thy  brow, 
Now  dazzling  bright,  and  softening  now  ; 
But  night's  dark  veil  too  oft  doth  cloud 
The  brow  which  genius  should  enshroud, 
For  vice  has  set  her  impress  there, 
Mingled  with  virtues  pure  and  fair. 
1833. 

INVOCATION. 

OH,  thou  almighty  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth ! 
From  whom  the  world  and  man  derive  their  birth, 
My  youthful  heart  with  sacred  love  inspire, 
And  fill  my  soul  with  wild  poetic  fire. 

And  oh,  thou  pure,  transcendent  muse  of  heaven. 
Descend  upon  an  airy  cloud  of  even, 
With  thy  bright  fingers  touch  the  trembling  chord, 
And  let  it  echo  to  my  Saviour,  Lord. 
1833. 

CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

HAIL  to  salvation's  brilliant  morn, 
Hail  to  the  dawn  of  joy  and  peace, 

When  God's  supreme,  almighty  power, 
Bade  all  our  pains  and  sorrows  cease. 

Ye  angels,  sing  your  sweetest  songs, 
And  strike  anew  each  golden  lyre; 

Let  him  to  whom  the  praise  belongs 
The  sacred  strain  inspire. 

The  day  the  star  of  promise  shone 

Bright  in  yon  eastern  sky, 
It  bore  redemption  in  its  light, 

A  herald  from  on  high. 

It  led  a  wise  and  chosen  band, 
Who  writhed  beneath  the  rod 

Of  Herod's  proud  and  kingly  hand, 
To  seek  their  infant  God. 

From  his  high  throne  in  realms  of  bliss, 
Wtiere  love  was  in  every  breast, 

From  his  glorious  home  he  came  to  this, 
And  in  his  descent  we  are  blest. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  141 

For  man's  unconquerable  pride, 

That  we  salvation  might  obtain, 
This  blessed  Saviour  bled  and  died, — 

And  has  the  sacrifice  been  vain  ? 

Oh  Jesus,  fill'd  with  sacred  fire, 

May  I  devote  this  life  to  thee; 
May  love  my  youthful  heart  inspire, 

And  glow  to  all  eternity ! 
1833. 


EVENING. 

'  TWAS  evening,  and  the  sun's  last  ray 
Was  beaming  o'er  the  azure  sky  ; 

Earth  bade  farewell  to  cheerful  day, 

Which  sinks  beneath  the  mountains  high. 

Those  cloud-tipp'd  mountains  soared  afar 
In  that  bright  heaven  of  blue, 

And  seem'd  to  reach  yon  eastern  star, 
Which  glittering  you  might  view. 

Between  its  banks  yon  rippling  stream 

Unruffled  glides  along, 
In  curling  eddies  onward  flew 

Rocks,  branches,  trees  among. 

Beyond  it  raged  the  troubled  sea, 

Which  drew  aloft  its  wave, 
And  ever  furious,  ever  dark, 

The  Sky  it  seem'd  to  brave. 

How  strangely,  sweetly  blended  there 

The  beautiful  and  grand, 
The  awful  with  the  prospect  fair, 

The  terrible  and  bland ! 

Behold  that  tall  majestic  rock, 
O'erhanging  yonder  stream  ; 
See,  at  its  frowning  foot  is  seen 

The  pale  moon's  silvery  beam. 
1833. 


ENIGMA. 

IN  nature  it  holds  a  conspicuous  part, 
It  lives  in  the  ocean,  and  softens  the  heart ; 
The  supporter  of  angels,  in  heaven  it  dwells, 
And  the  number  of  demons  reluctantly  swells, 
'T  is  a  part  of  our  faith,  and  it  lives  with  the  dead, 
'Tis  devoid  of  religion,  yet  always  in  dread  ; 
In  the  wavering  candle  all  brightly  it  glows, 
And  with  the  meandering  streamlet  it  flows. 


142  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Without  it  the  name  of  the  warrior  were  lost, 
And  the  seaman  would  sink,  on  the  wide  ocean  tost. 
And  now,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  guess  what  it  means, 
You  may  have  the  enigma  for  nought  but  your  pains. 
1833. 


TO  THE  DEITY. 

ALMIGHTY  GOD  !  Father  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Who  form'd,  from  'midst  Ihe  vast  expanse  of  chaos, 
This  spacious  world — omnipotent  and  holy  ! 
Before  thee  angels  bow ! — the  countless  host 
Of  those  that  praise  thee,  and  that  hover  round 
Thy  sacred  throne,  shrink  from  the  blaze  of  light, 
And  shadow  with  their  wings  their  beaming  brows, 
Lest,  on  their  senses  thy  transcendent  glories 
Burst  with  a  stunning  power,  and  absorb  them 
In  one  full  flood  of  brilliance. 
Oh  thou !  whose  ever-seeing  eye  can  pierce 
The  misty  shades  of  night,  and  penetrate 
The  deep  recesses  of  the  human  heart ; 
Parent  of  earth  !  how  glorious  are  thy  works ! 
Look  on  yon  orb,  whose  ever-open  eye 
Sheds  at  his  glance  a  pure,  resplendent  light, 
Dispensing  good.     Night  throws  her  sable  veil 
O'er  hill  and  rock,  o'er  rivulet  and  ocean : 
Then  chaste  Diana  sheds  her  silver  ray 
O'er  all :  her  throne,  the  fleecy  cloud  that  floats 
Over  the  vast  expanse  of  heaven  above  us ; 
Her  bright  attendants  are  the  brilliant  stars, 
That  seem  like  guardian  angels,  who  attend, 
In  virgin  purity,  to  keep  from  ill 
Our  ever-rolling  orb  :  beauty  reigns  over  all, 
And  tinges  nature  with  her  softest  touch. 
If  scenery  so  bright  as  this  be  here, 
Oh,  how  can  fancy  paint  the  joys  of  heaven, 
That  pure  and  holy  place,  region  of  bliss  ! 
There  glides  an  amber  stream,  diffusing  sweets, 
And  every  tiny  wave,  which  o'er  the  sands 
Of  purest  gold  rolls  backward,  washes  up 
Some  pearl  or  diamond,  gem  of  dazzling  beauty. 
While  ambrosial  zephyrs  fan  the  air. 
See,  yonder  angel,  resting  on  the  cloud, 
His  beaming  eye  upturn'd  with  holy  awe. 
Oh  list !  he  chaunts  his  great  Creator's  praise  ; 
His  golden  harp  is  never  hush'd  by  wo ; 
There  music  holds  her  sweet,  harmonious  reign. 
How  pure  the  being  who  calls  forth  that  lay  : 
Such  clear,  melodious  symphony 
Might  well  awake  the  dead  from  their  last  sleep. 
1833. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  143 


TO  MY  SISTER  LUCRETIA. 

THOUGH  thy  freshness  and  beauty  are  laid  in  the  tomb, 

Like  the  flow'ret,  which  droops  in  its  verdure  and  bloom  ; 

Though  the  halls  of  thy  childhood  now  mourn  thee  in  vain, 

And  thy  strains  will  ne'er  waken  their  echoes  again ; 

Still  o'er  the  fond  memory  they  silently  glide; 

Still,  still,  thou  art  ours  and  America's  pride. 

Sing  on,  thou  pure  seraph,  with  harmony  crown'd, 

O'er  the  broad  arch  of  heaven  thy  notes  shall  resound, 

And  pour  the  full  tide  of  thy  music  along, 

While  a  bright  choir  of  angels  re-echoes  the  song. 

The  pure  elevation  which  beam'd  from  thine  eye, 

As  it  turn'd  to  its  home,  in  yon  fair  azure  sky, 

Told  of  something  unearthly, — it  shone  with  the  light 

Of  pure  inspiration  and  holy  delight. 

"Round  the  rose  that  is  wither'd  a  fragrance  remains, 

O'er  beauty  in  ruins  the  mind  proudly  reigns." 

Thy  lyre  has  resounded  o'er  ocean's  broad  wave, 

And  the  tear  of  deep  anguish  been  shed  o'er  thy  grave, 

But  thy  spirit  has  mounted  to  regions  on  high, 

To  the  throne  of  its  God,  where  it  never  can  die. 

1833. 


WRITTEN  WHEN  BETWEEN  ELEVEN  AND  TWELVE 

PROPHECY. 

FAIR  mortal,  I  linger  to  tell  thee  thy  fate, 
Like  an  angel  above  thy  bright  fortunes  I  wait  : 
Thy  heart  is  a  mixture  of  tender  and  sweet, 
And  thy  bosom  is  virtue's  own  sacred  retreat. 
Simplicity  soft  and  affection  combine 
To  render  thee  lovely  and  almost  divine. 
Devoid  of  ambition,  rest,  dear  one,  secure, 
For  with  thoughts  so  refined,  and  with  feelings  so  pure, 
What  mortal  would  injure,  what  care  would  pursue 
A  being  protected  by  heaven  like  you  ? 
Bright  beauty  thou  hast  not,  but  something  so  fair 
It  may  serve  to  protect  t.hee  from  sorrow  and  care. 
I  pierce  the  light  veil  which  would  darken  thy  fate, 
And  angels  of  happiness  round  thee  await ; 
I  see  a  bright  cherub  supporting  thy  head, 
While  around  thee  the  smiles  of  affection  are  shed ; 
I  see  thy  aged  arms  around  him  prest, 
Thy  grey  locks  waving  o'er  his  youthful  breast — 
I  see  thee  on  his  tender  bosom  lay, 
In  silent  pleasure  breathe  thy  life  away. 
My  tale  is  told — dear  one,  I  linger  now 
To  kiss  with  fervent  love  thy  own  fair  brow. 
1833. 


144  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


ENIGMA. 

ON  the  brow  of  the  monarch  in  triumph  I  stand, 
I  govern  each  measure,  I  rule  each  command ; 
Without  me,  his  kingdom  to  atoms  would  fall, 
But  I  share  not  his  crown,  and  I  rule  not  his  hall. 
I  dance  in  the  meadow,  and  play  on  the  stream, 
And  I  glimmer  obscurely  in  Luna's  pale  beam. 

I  dwell  in  thy  bosom,  I  'm  part  of  thy  form, 

But  I  ride  on  the  tempest,  and  guide  the  fierce  storm ; 

With  the  sea-nymph  I  rest  on  the  moss-cover'd  cliff, 

And  I  weep  with  the  mourner  that  life  is  so  brief. 

O'er  the  grave  of  the  mighty  in  sorrow  I  bow, 

And  I  rest  in  thy  mind  as  thou  'rt  watching  me  now. 

Go  look  on  the  pillow  of  sorrow  and  care, 

On  the  brow  that  is  wither'd  by  darkest  despair, 

Stern  affliction  will  meet  you,  but  I  am  not  there. 

In  the  heart  of  the  rich  man,  the  court  of  the  prince, 

In  the  mariner's  vessel,  the  warrior's  lance, 

In  the  tumult  of  war,  on  the  brow  of  the  fair, 

Though  millions  surround  them  still  I  am  not  there. 

In  the  home  of  the  noble,  the  virtuous,  the  great, 
In  thy  own  lovely  bosom,  rejoicing  I  wait. 
I  wish  I  might  dwell  in  that  beautiful  eye; 
I  wish  I  might  float  on  yon  pure  azure  sky ; 
I  would  lead  you  in  triumph  wherever  I  stray'd, 
Where  the  sunbeam  had  lit,  or  the  pale  moon  had  play'd. 
1834. 


ESSAY  ON  THE  SACRED  WRITINGS. 

THE  Bible ! — what  is  it  ? — every  heart  which  has  read  and  justly  ap. 
preciated  that  inestimable  volume  cannot  fail  to  exclaim,  "  This  is  the 
work  of  a  God  !"  Who  is  there  that  will  not  admire,  (although  he  read 
with  a  doubting  mind,)  its  force,  dignity,  beauty,  and  simplicity?  Prin 
ciples  so  pure,  precepts  so  sublime,  and  thoughts  so  refined,  who  could 
have  formed  them  but  one  inspired  by  a  God,  or  God  himself?  'T  is 
our  guide,  our  star  to  lead,  the  herald  to  usher  us  into  a  glorious  eter 
nity.  When  the  mind  is  overwhelmed  with  care,  what  power  can 
soothe  like  this  sacred  volume?  Its  pages  beaming  with  truth  and 
mercy,  will  shed  a  holy  light  over  the  troubled  landscape,  and  impart  a 
softer  swell  to  the  billows  of  adversity.  It  is  the  lighthouse  by  whose 
beams  we  should  direct  our  path  over  the  gloomy  waves  of  life.  Then 
why  neglect  it  ?  Some  may  think  it  derogatory  to  their  earthly  dignity 
— "  What  will  the  world  say  ?"  Read  it,  and  learn  from  its  sublime 
precepts  to  stem  the  tide  of  worldly  opinion.  When  all  else  fails  you, 
this  will  remain  the  supporter  of  your  rights;  here  is  real  dignity  and 
grandeur,  but  it  is  the  dignity  of  the  soul,  the  grandeur  of  virtue,  the 
dignity  arising  from  a  close  alliance  with  the  Deity.  If  He  who 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  145 

thundered  on  Mount  Sinai,  and  caused  the  silver  founts  to  flow  from 
rocks  of  adamant,  will  deign  to  approach  so  near  us,  is  it  for  us  to  stand 
aloof,  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  our  own  insignificance,  and  brave  the 
tempest  of  life  alone  ?  Oh  !  how  depraved  that  heart  must  be,  which 
such  condescension  will  fail  to  affect !  and  how  happy  the  bosom  for 
ever  confiding  in  its  God !  calm  in  the  rnidst  of  afflictions,  resigned 
while  the  torments  of  grief  pour  on  the  soul;  which,  though  borne 
down  by  sorrow,  is  fortified  by  virtue,  and  looks  calmly  and  steadily 
forward  to  the  calamities  which  it  is  certain  will  terminate  in  an  end 
less  communion  with  its  Maker. 
February  2d,  1834. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SODOM  AND  GOMORRAH. 

OH  tremble,  ye  proud  ones  !  oh  tremble  with  fear ! 

For  Jehovah  has  come  in  his  wrath  ; 
Stern  vengeance  is  throned  on  his  terrible  brow, 

And  lightning  attends  on  his  path. 
Oh  shrink  from  the  glance  of  his  soul-quenching  eye, 
As  he  treads  on  the  whirlwind,  and  comes  from  on  high ! 

Oh,  burst  the  dark  shackles  of  sorrow  and  sin  ! 

Before  his  dread  presence  in  penitence  bow ; 
Oh,  dash  the  bright  wine-cup  in  terror  away, 

And  dare  not  to  gaze  on  his  broad  flaming  brow, 
For  the  angel  of  mercy  no  longer  is  there, 
To  quiet  your  conscience,  or  soothe  your  despair. 

The  spirit  of  death  o'er  your  city  has  pass'd, 
His  broad  flaming  weapon  is  waving  on  high ; 

Your  sentence  is  heard  in  the  whirlwind's  rude  blast, 
'T  is  written  in  fear  on  yon  lightning-crown'd  sky ; 

Oh,  powerless  your  arm,  and  unwielded  your  lance, 

As  he  cometh  with  vengeance  and  fire  on  his  glance. 

The  bride  at  the  altar,  the  prince  on  his  throne, 
The  warrior  secure  in  his  strongly-built  tower, 

For  the  soft  voice  of  music  hear  sorrow's  deep  moan, 
And  shrink  'neath  the  hand  of  their  God  in  his  power  ; 

The  smile  on  the  cheek  is  transform'd  to  a  tear, 

But  repentance  is  lost  in  bewailing  and  fear. 

Oh,  turn  to  your  God,  in  this  moment  of  dread, 
For  mercy  may  rest  'neath  the  frown  on  his  brow. 

Oh,  haste  ere  each  fast-failing  hope  shall  have  fled 
Oh,  haste  in  repentance  and  terror  to  bow. 

The  moment  of  grace  and  repentance  has  pass'd  ; 

'  Your  entreaties  for  pardon  are  useless  and  vain; 
The  sword  of  destruction  is  levell'd  at  last, 

And  Gomorrah  and  Sodom  are  ashes  again. 
1834. 

12* 


146  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

VERSIFICATION  FROM  OSSIAN. 

OH  thou,  who  rollest  far  above, 

Round  as  my  father's  shield  in  war  ! 

From  whence  proceed  thy  beams,  oh  sun, 
Which  shine  for  ever  and  afar? 

All  cold  and  pale,  the  feeble  moon 

Shrinks  back,  eclipsed  beneath  thy  power; 

The  western  wave  conceals  its  light 
At  morning's  bright  resplendent  hour. 

But  thou,  unchanging,  mov'st  alone ! 

Oh  who  may  thy  companion  be? 
The  rugged  rocks,  the  mountain's  fall, 

But  who  may  stand  in  might  like  thee  ? 

The  ocean  shrinks  and  grows  again, 
All  earthly  things  will  fade  away, 

But  thou  for  ever  art  the  same, 
Rejoicing  in  thy  brilliant  ray  ; 

Rolling  and  rolling  on  thy  way, 

Enlightening  worlds  from  day  to  day. 

When  o'er  yon  vault  the  thunders  peal, 
And  lightning  in  its  pathway  flies ; 

When  tempests  darken  o'er  the  world, 
And  cloud  the  once  resplendent  skies, 

Thou  rear'st  on  high  thy  noble  form, 

And  laughest  at  the  raging  storm. 

But  now  thou  look'st  to  me  in  vain, 
For  I  behold  thy  beams  no  more  ; 

I  languish  here  in  darkness  now, 
On  Erin's  green  and  fertile  shore. 

I  know  not  if  thy  yellow  hair 
Is  floating  on  the  western  clouds, 

Or  if  the  fleecy  veil  of  morn 

Thy  brilliant  beauty  lightly  shrcuds  ; 

But  thou,  great  sun,  perhaps,  like  me, 
Shall  days  of  rest  and  silence  see. 

Amid  the  clouds  thy  form  may  sleep, 
Regardless  of  the  morning's  voice ; 

Exult  then,  mightv  orb  of  day, 

And  in  thy  vigorous  youth  rejoice. 
1834. 

TO  MY  DEAR  MAMMA. 

ON   RETURNING   FROM    A    LONG    VISIT    TO   NEW    YORK. 

THOUGH  my  lyre  has  been  silent,  dear  mother,  so  long 
That  its  chords  are  now  broken,  and  loose,  and  unstrung, 

If  't  will  call  but  one  smile  of  delight  to  thy  cheek, 
I  will  waken  the  notes  which  so  long  were  unsung. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  1  17 

My  lyre  has  been  thrown  all  neglected  aside, 

And  other  enjoyments  I'  ve  sought  for  a  while ; 
But  though  lured  by  their  brilliance,  still  none  can  compare 

With  my  dear  little  harp  and  my  mother's  sweet  smile. 

With  joy  I  return  to  rny  books  and  my  pen, 
To  my  snug  little  home  and  its  inmates  so  dear, 

For  while  scribbling  each  thought  of  my  half-crazy  brain 
I  can  chase  every  sorrow  and  lull  every  fear. 

Oh  excuse  my  poor  harp,  if  the  lines  do  not  rhyme, 
'T  is  so  long  since  it  warbled  aught  breathing  of  sense, 

That  the  chords,  though  I'  m  striving  to  tune  them  aright, 
Still  warble  of  folly  and  pleasure  intense. 

1834. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  F.  H.  WEBB. 

IN  vain  I  strike  my  youthful  lyre, 

Some  gayer  music  to  impart, 
And  dissipate  the  gloom  which  hangs 

Too  sadly  round  my  mourning  heart. 

Oh,  I  would  wish  its  low  deep  tones, 

Some  gentler,  sprightlier  strains  to  borrow ; 

But  still  they  only  can  respond 

The  plaintive  voice  of  heartfelt  sorrow. 

For  she,  the  young,  the  bright,  the  gay, 

Has  left  us  here  to  weep, 
While  cover'd  with  her  parent  clay, 

And  wrapt  in -death's  long  sleep. 

But  memory  still  can  paint  the  scenes 

Of  past,  but  ne'er  forgotten  joy, 
When  we  have  sported  wild  and  free, 

No  sorrow  pleasure's  tide  to  cloy. 

Thy  form,  as  it  was  wont  to  be, 

Still  mingles  with  each  thought  of  home; 

My  earliest  sports  were  join'd  by  thee, 

When  graced  by  beauty's  brightest  bloom. 

Again  I  view  that  hazel  eye, 

With  life  and  pleasure  beaming; 
Again  I  view  that  fair,  white  brow, 

Those  dark  locks  o'er  it  streaming. 

Again  I  view  thy  blushing  cheek, 

The  glow  of  love  and  pride, 
When,  'mid  the  throng  of  smiling  friends, 

A  blooming,  happy  bride. 

But  more  than  these,  the  angel  mind 

Should  all  our  thoughts  engage  ; 
Oh,  't  was  unsullied  and  refined 

As  is  this  spotless  page. 


1 18  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDS  JN. 

How  changed  the  scene  !  the  star  of  hope 
Has  set  in  clouds  of  darkest  night, 

And  she,  the  lovely  and  the  gay, 

Is  laid  in  the  grave  with  her  beauty  and  light. 

Oh,  where  shall  the  mother,  all  mourning  and  sad, 
Oh,  where  shall  she  look  for  the  child  she  adored  ! 

And  where  shall  the  husband,  half  frantic  with  grief, 
Find  the  wife  in  whose  bosom  his  sorrows  he  pour'd  ! 

How  lonely  and  silent  each  well-beloved  scene, 

Each  garden,  each  grove,  which  she  loved  to  frequent; 

The  sweet  flowers  she  nurtured  so  fondly  and  long, 
In  sorrow  their  heads  to  the  damp  ground  have  bent. 

But  a  flow'ret  more  lovely,  more  tender  and  pure, 
Is  languidly  drooping,  no  mother  to  guide  j 

The  fond  kiss  of  a  mother  it  never  can  feel, 

And  to  her  the  warm  prayer  of  a  mother's  denied. 

But  the  spirit  we  mourn  has  ascended  on  high, 
And  there  it  will  watch  o'er  its  little  one's  fate ; 

In  whispers  her  voice  will  be  heard  from  the  sky, 
With  a  mother's  affection  which  ne'er  can  abate. 
1834. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

THOUGH  yon  broad  vault  of  heavenly  blue 
Is  spangled  o'er  with  gems  of  light ; 

Though  veil'd  beneath  its  azure  hue 
Is  glittering  many  a  star  so  bright ; 

Though  thousands  wait  around  the  throne 
Of  yon  cold  monarch,  proudly  fair; 

Though  all  unite  their  dazzling  powers 
To  vie  with  Luna's  brilliance  there  ; 

Each  star  which  decks  her  cloud-veil'd  brow 

Or  glitters  in  her  snowy  car, 
Would  shrink  beneath  thy  dazzling  ray, 

Sweet  little  sparkling  evening  star  I 

No  twinkling  groups  around  thee  throng, 
Thy  path  majestic,  lonely,  bright ! 

A  radiant  softness  shades  thy  form, 
First  wanderer  in  the  train  of  night ! 

While  gazing  on  thy  glorious  path, 
It  seems  as  though  some  seraph's  eye 

Look'd  with  angelic  sweetness  down, 
And  watch'd  me  from  the  glorious  sky. 

As  the  dim  twilight  steals  around, 
And  tbou  art  trembling  far  above, 

I  think  of  those  no  longer  here, 
Dear  objects  of  my  earliest  love. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  149 

And  the  soft  ray  which  beams  from  thee, 

A  soothing-  calmness  doth  impart; 
And  from  each  poignant  sorrow  free, 

A  sweet  composure  fills  my  heart. 

Oh !  then  shine  on  thus  pure  and  bright, 

Pour  on  each  mourning  soul  thy  balm ' 
Soothe  the  sad  bosom's  rankling  grief, 

And  fill  it  with  thy  heavenly  calm ! 

Till  meek,  submissive,  and  resign'd, 

It  seeks  above  a  purer  joy  ; 
And  stays  the  fickle,  wayward  mind 

On  pleasures  which  can  never  cloy. 
1834. 


TO  MY  FATHER. 

OH,  how  I  love  my  father's  eye, 

So  tender  and  so  kind ! 
Oh,  how  I  love  its  azure  dye, 

The  index  of  his  mind  ! 

Oh,  how  I  love  the  silver  hair 

Which  floats  around  his  brow ! 

I  love  to  press  my  father's  form, 

And  feel  his  cheek's  warm  glow. 

Oh  what  is  like  a  parent's  love? 

What  heart  like  his  will  feel, 
When  sorrow's  waves  are  raging  round. 

And  cares  the  thoughts  congeal  ? 

Would  he  not  die  his  child  to  save  ? 

Would  not  his  blood  be  shed 
That  yet  one  darling  might  remain 

To  soothe  his  dying  bed? 

Oh,  what  is  like  a  parent's  care 
To  guard  the  youthful  mind  ? 

Oh,  what  is  like  a  parent's  prayer, 
Unbounded  grace  to  find  ? 

Ah,  yes  !  my  father  is  a  friend 

I  ever  must  revere, 
And,  if  I  could  but  cease  to  love, 

His  virtues  I  would  fear. 
1834. 


ON  NATURE. 

"  How  beautiful  is  Nature  !"     Every  soul, 
Beating  with  warm  and  gentle  feeling, 
Must  repeat  with  me  these  heartfelt  words, 
"  How  beautiful  is  Nature  !"     In  the  dark 


MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


Awful  waving  of  the  sky-crown'd  forest, 

Her  gentle  whisper,  like  an  angel's  voice, 

Still  breaks  upon  the  stillness  ; — in  the  stream 

Which  ripples  past,  is  heard  her  low,  sweet  murmur; 

While  on  the  varied  sky,  the  frowning  mount, 

Her  chainless  hand  majestical  is  laid ! 

What  voice  so  sweet  as  hers  ?  what  touch  so  soft, 

So  delicate  ?  what  pencilling  so  divine  ? 

Oh,  can  the  warmest  fancy  ever  picture 

To  the  rapt  soul,  a  scene  more  beautiful ! 

Say,  can  imagination,  light  as  air, 

Capricious  as  each  varying  wind  which  blows, 

Create  a  model  of  more  perfect  loveliness, 

More  grace  and  symmetry  ?     Can  thought  present 

A  tint  more  light,  and  yet  more  gorgeous, 

Hues  more  sweetly  mingled,  one  dim  shadow, 

Blending  in  grace  more  lovely  with  another  ? 

Ah  no!  but  'tis  the  sin  which  dwells  within 

That  casts  a  dark'nmg  shade  o'er  Nature's  face — 

Nought  can  there  be  more  beauteous  and  divine ; 

But  to  the  eye  of  discontent  and  wo, 

Her  gentle  graces  seem  to  mix  with  sorrow  • 

And  to  the  chilling  glance  of  stern  despair, 

Her  sweetest  smile  is  but  a  threatening  cloud  ; 

Just  as  the  mind  is  turn'd  she  smiles  or  frowns, 

And  to  each  eye  a  different  view  appears. 

The  cheerful,  happy  heart,  devoid  of  guilt, 

Like  a  white  tablet,  opens  to  receive 

Each  passing  hue,  and  as  the  colours  flit 

Over  its  surface,  it  becomes  more  tranquil, 

And  fit  to  take  once  more  the  forms  of  joy, 

Which  ever,  as  they  glide  so  swee-tly  by, 

Tinge  the  fond  soul  with  happiness  serene. 

If  dark,  degrading  sin  had  never  cast 

Its  shade  of  gloom  o'er  Nature's  lovely  brow, 

This  world  had  been  an  earthly  paradise. 

An  all-presiding  God  has  deck'd  our  globe 

With  grace,  and  life,  and  light ;  each  object  glows 

With  heavenly  tints,  and  every  form 

Contains  some  hidden  beauty,  which,  to  minds 

Unburden'd  with  a  consciousness  of  guilt, 

Proclaims  the  power  of  Him  who  rules  o'er  all. 

The  falling  snow-flake,  or  the  humming  bee, 

Small  though  they  seem,  may  still  contain  a  world 

Of  knowledge  and  of  skill,  which  human  wisdom, 

Mix'd  with  human  guilt,  can  never  fathom. 

The  smallest  item  in  this  wondrous  plan, 

Replete  with  grace,  and  harmony,  and  light, 

Would  form  employment  for  a  fleeting  life  ? 

Oh,  't  were  a  home  for  angels  !  and  a  home 

No  angel  might  despise,  if  human  guilt 

Had  never  stain' d  it  with  its  crimson  glow. 

Our  earth  was  once  an  Eden,  and  if  sin 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

Had  never  tinged  with  blood  its  rippling  streams, 
And  ne'er  profaned  its  broad  luxuriant  fields 
With  scenes  of  wickedness  and  thoughts  of  woe, 
Had  thus  remain'd  ;  each  heart  o'erflowing 
With  delight  and  love ;  each  bosom  fill'd 
With  heavenly  joy.     How  awful  is  the  change  ! 
And  how  tremendous  the  effect  of  sin 
On  nature  and  on  man  !     The  wayward  soul, 
Once  open'd  to  degrading  guilt,  is  deaden'd 
To  her  beauty ;  and  all  the  glowing  charms 
Which  waken'd  it  to  love  and  happiness, 
Ere  thus  ensnared,  are  pass'd  unnoticed  now ! 
Oh,  could  we  purify  our  souls  from  sin, 
Would  we  desire  a  brighter  heaven  than  this  ? 
More  glorious,  more  sublime,  more  varied, 
Or  more  beauteous  ?     The  softly  rippling  stream, 
The  rising  mountain,  and  the  leafy  wood, 
Combine  their  charms  to  grace  the  splendid  scene  ! 
The  light-crown'd  firmament,  the  tinted  sky, 
And  all  the  sweetly  varying  graces 
Which  bedeck  the  queenlike  brow  of  nature, 
Serve  but  to  show  the  power  of  nature's  God, 
The  mighty  Lord  of  this  immense  creation  ! 
The  heavenly  Maker  of  our  lovely  world. 
1634. 

TO  THE  INFIDEL. 

BEHOLD,  t.hou  daring  sinner  !  canst  thou  say, 
As  rolls  the  sun  along  its  trackless  course, 

A  God  has  never  form'd  that  orb  of  day, 

Of  life,  and  light,  and  happiness  the  source  ? 

Who  made  yon  dark  blue  ocean  ?     Who 
The  roaring  billow  and  the  curling  wave, 

Dashing  and  foaming  o'er  its  coral  bed, 
Of  many  a  hardy  mariner  the  grave? 

Who  made  yon  dazzling  firmament  of  blue, 
So  calm,  so  beautiful,  so  brightly  clear, 

Deck'd  with  its  stars  and  clouds  of  fleecy  white, 
Like  the  bright  entrance  to  another  sphere  ? 

Who  made  the  drooping  flow'ret  ?     Who 
The  snowy  lily  and  the  blushing  rose  — 

Emblem  of  love,  which  sheds  its  fragrance  round, 
As  with  the  tints  of  heaven  it  brightly  glows  ? 

Who  raised  the  frowning  rock  ?     Who  made 
The  moss  and  turf  around  its  base  to  grow  ? 

Who  made  the  lofty  mountains,  and  the  streams 
Which  at  their  feet  in  rippling  currents  flow  ? 

Say,  was  it  not  a  God  ?  and  does  not  all 

Bear  the  strong  "  impress  of  his  mighty  hand  ?' 

Oh  yes  —  his  stamp  is  fix'd  on  all  around  — 
All  sprang  to  being  at  our  Lord's  command. 


252  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Oh,  ask  the  mind !  —  oh,  ask  the  immortal  mind, 

And  this  will  be  stern  reason's  firm  reply  — 
'T  will  echo  over  ocean's  swelling  tide : 

The  hand  that  form'd  us  was  a  Deity  ! 
1834. 


ON  THE  MIND. 

How  great,  how  wonderful  the  human  mind, 

Which,  in  each  secret  fold,  conceals  some  dread, 

Mysterious  truth  ;  which  spurns  the  fetters 

Binding  it  to  earth,  yet  draws  them  closer 

Round  it;  which,  yearning  for  a  world  more  pure, 

And  more  congenial  with  its  heavenly  thoughts, 

Confines  its  soaring  spirit  to  the  region 

Of  death  and  sin  !     But  oh,  how  glorious 

The  sublime  idea,  that  though  this  frame, 

Corrupt  and  mortal,  mingle  with  the  dust, 

There  is  a  spark  within,  which,  while  on  earth, 

Gives  to  the  clay  its  energy  and  life, 

And  when  that  clay  returneth  to  the  dust 

From  whence  it  came,  may  rise  triumphant 

From  the  senseless  clod,  and  soaring,  mount  on  high. 

To  dwell  with  beings  holy  and  divine ; 

.And  there,  with  its  ever-growing  ken, 

Clasp  the  great  universe  ;  with  angels  there 

To  expand  those  heaven-born  powers,  which  here 

Were  fetter'd  with  the  earthly  chains  that  bind 

Misguided  man — pride,  sorrow,  discontent, 

And  cold  ambition,  foolish  and  perverted — 

But  destined  there  to  burn  in  all  its  light, 

And  urge  the  enfranchised  on  to  seek 

Glories  still  undiscover'd,  wonders 

As  yet  unknown.     And  can  it  be  ?     Does  this 

Weak,  trembling  frame  conceal  within  itself 

A  soul  ethereal  and  immortal  ? 

A  glorious  spark,  sublime  and  boundless, 

"Struck  from  the  burning  essence  of  its  God," 

The  great  I  AM,  the  dread  Eternal  ? 

Oh,  how  tremendous  is  the  awful  thought ! 

The  soul  shrinks  back  alarm'd,  too  weak  to  gazt» 

On  its  own  greatness,  or  rather  on  the  greatness 

Of  that  God  who  made  it !     Yes  !  'tis  his  work  ! 

The  moulding  of  his  mighty  hand  !     How  dread, 

How  peerless,  how  incomparably  great 

The  Governor  and  Former  of  this  vast  machine  ! 

Who  watches  from  on  high  its  slightest  thought, 

And  omnipresent  and  unbounded,  sways 

Each  feeling  and  each  impulse  !  and  whose  touch, 

However  slight,  may  turn  its  passions  from 

Their  common  channel,  and  whose  breath  can  tune 

Aright  those  delicate  and  hidden  fibres, 

Which,  rudely  touch'd,  would  yield  their  finest  chorda, 

And  thus  destroy  the  harmony  of  all, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  15? 

Leaving  a  blank  and  darken'd  chaos 
Where  once  was  harmony  and  joy  ! 
Oh  ye  that  seek  to  guide  perverse  mankind, 
Tamper  not  lightly  with  the  human  mind ; 
But  when  an  erring  friend  from  virtue  strays, 
Gently  reprove,  and  do  not  seek  to  guide 
Those  hidden  springs  which  God  alone  can  fathom. 
Oh  'tis  a  fearful  thing  to  see  the  mind, 
Derived  from  such  a  pure  and  holy  source, 
Debased  by  sin,  by  dark,  offensive  crime, 
And  render'd  equal  with  the  beasts  that  roarn  ? 
To  see  the  wreck  of  all  that  once  was  good, 
The  shrinking  remnant  of  a  noble  soul, 
Like  the  proud  ship,  which  for  a  while  m;iy  stem 
The  roaring  ocean,  but  o'ercome  by  storms, 
With  half  its  voyage  done,  is  torn  apart — 
The  sails,  the  stately  masts,  and,  last  of  all, 
The  guiding  helm — until  the  shatter 'd  hulk 
Lies  undefended  from  the  sweeping  blasts, 
Threaten'd  by  frowning  rocks ; — but  as  some 
Friendly  hand  may  snatch  from  death's  embrace 
The  shuddering  crew,  so  may  a  Saviour's  love 
Redeem  from  endless  wo  the  trembling  sinner, 
And  lead  his  shrinking  spirit  up  to  heaven  ! 
The  mighty  God  who  saw  him  err,  can  change, 
Within  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  his  wayward  heart, 
And  give  to  his  apostate  soul  those  pure 
And  blessed  dreams  of  heaven, 
Those  hopes  of  immortality,  which  soothe 
The  dying  Christian ;  and  when  his  spirit 
Ascends  to  dwell  with  Him  it  once  despised, 
Through  the  bright  merits  of  our  heavenly  Lord, 
It  there  may  join  in  love  and  hope  with  all 
The  angel  band,  in  singing  prarses 
To  their  glorious  King,  the  great  Jehovah ! 
Oh  that  we  too  might  cherish  every  virtue, 
Prepare  our  minds  for  immortality, 
Where  undisturb'd  they  may  expand, 
And  reach  perfection  in  a  future  world. 
1834. 


ON  THE  HOPE  OF  MY  BROTHER'S  RETURN. 

WHY  rejoices  my  heart  at  the  passage  of  time, 
As  it  sweeps  on  the  wind  o'er  the  fast-rolling  year, 

And  bounds  as  the  sun  to  his  broad  couch  declines, 
His  bed  in  the  ocean,  majestic  and  clear  ? 

I  pause  not  to  question  if  wise  it  may  be, 
But  faster  I'll  hurry  old  Time  on  his  way ; 

And  while  hours  unnuinber'd  shall  rapidly  flee, 
I'll  laugh  as  they1  fade  from  the  fast-closing  day 
13 


*  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

When  the  icy-cold  spell  of  stern  winter  shall  break, 

And  the  snow  shall  dissolve  like  the  dewdrops  of  morn ; 

When  spring  from  his  death-like  embraces  shall  wake, 
And  verdure  and  brilliance  her  brow  shall  adorn; 

To  my  fancy  the  woodlands  more  sweetly  will  smile, 
The  streamlets  unshackled  more  tranquilly  glide ; 

More  softly  shall  nature  each  sorrow  beguile, 

And  disperse  every  thought  which  with  grief  may  be  dyed. 

I  will  watch  the  bright  flowers  with  their  delicate  bloom, 
Aroused,  as  by  magic,  from  winter's  cold  tomb, 
For  my  heart  will  be  gladden'd  as  near  and  more  near 
The  period  approaches  when  he  will  be  here. 
Oh  June  !  how  resplendent  thy  flowers  shall  appear, 
The  loveliest,  the  sweetest  which  bloom  in  the  year ! 
For  with  me  a  fond  brother  your  grace  Shall  admire. 
And  each  word  from  his  lips  shall  new  rapture  inspire. 
But  these  dreams,  though  enchanting,  may  prove  to  be  vain, 
He  never  may  visit  the  loved  scene  again ; 
On  his  home  the  dread  weight  of  affliction  may  rest, 
And  the  cold  hand  of  sorrow  may  chill  the  warm  breast ; 
Or  death  from  its  bosom  some  dear  one  may  sever 
And  stop  the  warm  current  of  life-blood  for  ever. 
But  love  will  illumine  the  future  with  light, 
And  tinge  every  cloud  with  a  colour  as  bright 
As  hope  in  her  own  sanguine  bosom  has  planted, 
Or  fancy  with  all  her  illusions  has  granted. 
1834. 

TO  MY  MOTHER. 

THE  spring  of  life  is  opening 

Upon  my  youthful  mind, 
And  every  day  the  more  I  see, 

The  more  there  is  to  find. 

The  path  of  life  is  beautiful 

When  sprinkled  o'er  with  flowers, 

And  I  ne'er  felt  affliction's  touch, 
Or  watch'd  the  weary  hours. 

To  guard  my  youthful  couch  from  wo, 

An  angel  hovers  near, 
Watches  my  bosom's  every  throe, 

And  wipes  each  childish  tear. 

It  is  my  mother— and  with  her 

Through  life  I  'd  sweetly  glide, 
And  when  my  pilgrimage  is  o'er 

I'd  moulder  at  her  side. 

To  her  I  dedicate  my  lay, 

'T  is  she  inspires  my  song ; 
Oh  that  it  might  those  charms  possess, 

Which  to  the  muse  belong. 
1834. 


POETICAL   REMAINS.  155 


BOABDIL  EL  CHICO'S  FAREWELL  TO  GRANADA. 

THE  youthful  lyre  would  shrink  from  tales  of  woe, 

Would  tune  with  hope  and  love  each  quivering  string', 
But  when  truth  bids  the  sorrowing  numbers  flow, 

Its  mournful  chords  responsive  notes  must  ring. 
'T  is  sweet  to  tell  of  laughing  mirth  and  glee  ; 

Its  chords  would  vibrate  but  to  purest  joy ; 
And  when  deep  anguish  pours  unmix'd  and  free, 

Would  haste  with  hope  the  sinking  heart  to  buoy. 

But  faithfal  history  still  the  page  unfolds 

Of  war  and  blood  ;  of  carnage  fierce  and  dark  ; 
Of  savage  bosoms,  cast  in  giant  mould, 

And  hearts  unwarm'd  by  pity's  gentle  spark. 
Then  cast  your  garb  of  merry  music  by, 

Assume  the  mantle  of  unbrighten'd  woe;  — 
A  cloud  is  gathering  o'er  the  peaceful  sky, 

And  the  warm  sunbeams  hide  their  golden  glow. 

Robed  in  a  mantle  of  unrivall'd  light, 

The  glorious  sun  was  sinking  o'er  the  plain, 
And  tinging,  with  a  glow  of  radiance  bright, 

The  towering  domes  and  palaces  of  Spain. 
Between  the  lofty  mounts  which  rise  around, 

And  form  the  deep  ravine  or  shady  dell, 
Granada's  towers  in  mighty  grandeur  stood, 

And  on  the  plain  their  darkening  shadows  fell. 

The  beams  were  gilding  all  her  lofty  towers, 

As  qn  Nevada's  side  Alhambra  stood, 
And  o'er  her  spacious  halls,  her  laurel  bowers, 

Her  marble  courts,  they  pour'd  a  dazzling  flood. 
Her  gothic  arches  glitter'd  in  the  ray, 

While  many  a  gushing  fountain  cool'd  the  air. 
And  o'er  the  blushing  flowers  diffused  their  spray, 

Which  bloom  perennial  in  a  world  of  care. 

The  golden  lute  upon  the  grape-vine  hung, 
O'er  sparkling  waves  the  fragrant  orange  rose, 

And  o'er  the  gilded  roofs  the  sunbeams  flung 
A  dazzling  light,  as  when  the  diamond  glows. 

And  can  it  be  ! — can  scenes  so  fair  as  this 

Know  aught  but  joy  unclouded,  purest  bliss  ? 

Will  heaven's  bright  orb  its  dazzling  brilliance  shed, 

As  if  in  mockery,  upon  sorrow's  head  ? 

Will  skies  of  azure  pour  their  softest  light 

On  hearts  which  grief  has  sear'd,  and  woe  doth  blight? 

Will  earth  rejoice,  while  earthly  hearts  are  riven,— 

While  man,  oppress'd,  to  dark  despair  is  driven  ? 

Retire,  oh  sun  !  reserve  thy  cheering  rays 

For  calmer  hours,  for  brighter,  happier  days ! 


156  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Go  shine  on  England's  spires,  or  India's  bowers, 
But  gaze  not  on  Alhambra's  humbled  towers  ! 

Cease,  cease  thy  soft  meanderings,  sparkling  river ! 
Wind  sadly  silent,  gentle  Guadalquivir  ! 
No  more  thy  waves  through  Moorish  woodlands  glance, 
No  more  reflect  the  Moorish  warrior's  lance, 
Nor  view  the  tournament  and  sprightly  dance. 
Cease,  for  thy  foam  is  red  with  Moslem  blood  ! 
Cease,  for  thy  lords  lie  cold  beneath  thy  flood  ! 
Captive  Boabdil  leaves  his  rightful  throne, 
To  others  yields  a  kingdom  once  his  own. 

Behold  yon  gate  I1  the  ancient  sages  say 

No  stone  shall  loosen,  till  that  awful  day, 

When  yonder  guardian  hand,  now  firmly  clasp'd, 

The  mystic  key  beneath  its  arch  has  grasp'd ; 

At  that  dread  hour  each  crumbling  stone  shall  fall, 

And  in  one  common  ruin  bury  all ; 

But  not  till  then,  though  first  Alhambra  lie 

A  shapeless  ruin,  'neath  a  frowning  sky, 

Why  should  she  last  ?  the  monument  of  shame, 
Her  legends  disbelieved,  degraded  every  name ! 

Her  noblest  chiefs  reduced  to  toil, 

Her  maidens  left,  the  conqueror's  spoil ! 
Murder'd  her  children,  scorn'd  each  lovely  dame. 

Oh,  that  the  mystic  hand  had  power 
To  veil  Granada's  shame ; 

That  in  one  dark  and  awful  hour, 
Might  perish  each  dishonour'd  name. 

Lo !  on  yon  mount  appears  a  mournful  train  ! 
Behold  the  newly-conquer'd  slave  of  Spain ! 
El  Chico,  humbled,  winds  his  sorrowing  way, 
For,  with  his  home,  he  leaves  the  light  of  day. 
Ill-fated  prince  !  thine  errors  still  I  mourn ; 

A  father's  hatred  caused  each  bursting  sigh  ; 
Thy  youthful  days  were  lonely  and  forlorn, 

Condemn'd  a  father's  cruelty  to  fly. 

Thy  heart  was  never  form'd  for  kingly  state ; 

It  teem'd  with  softest  feeling,  gentlest  thought ! 
Devoid  of  strength  to  battle  with  thy  fate, 

For  peace  in  vain  thy  troubled  bosom  sought ! 

Though  the  brave  may  not  tremble  when  war  shall  surround  them 
Or  shrink  when  the  mantle  of  death  shall  have  bound  them, 
Yet  the  eye  which  can  gaze  unconcern'd  on  the  tomb, 
Which  can  look  without  shrinking  on  death  in  its  gloom. 
Will  dissolve  like  the  dew,  or  some  wizard's  dark  spell, 
When  it  bids  the  sweet  home  of  its  childhood  farewell. 

The  exiled  monarch  slowly  turn'd  away; 

He  could  not  bear  to  view  those  towers  again, 
Which  proudly  glitter'd  in  the  sun's  last  ray, 

As  if  to  mock  their  wretched  master's  pain. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  157 

His  weeping  bride  press'd  trembling  near  his  form, 

While  sobs  convulsive  heaved  her  snowy  breast; 
But  proud  Ayxa  bade  their  sorrows  cease, 

With  scornful  glances  which  she  scarce  represt. 
"  Chide  me  not,  mother,"  cried  the  mourning  son, 

"  Nor  charge  me;  with  unmanly  weakness  now ; 
I  grieve  that  Spain  the  royal  prize  has  won, 

That  proud  Granada  to  her  kings  should  bow." 
He  paused,  and  turn'd  aside  his  glowing  cheek ; 

His  wandering  eyes  Alhambra's  palace  met : 
Those  splendid  domes,  those  towers  for  ever  lost, 

Lost,  when  the  sun  of  Moorish  glory  set. 

"  Yes !  yonder  towering  spires  are  seized  by  Spain, 

Their  king  an  exile  from  his  native  land ; 
Shall  I  ne'er  view  thy  princely  courts  again, 

But  yield  resistless  to  the  victor's  brand  ? 
Yes,  thou  art  gone !  thine  ancient  splendours  fled  ! 

O'er  thy  gay  towers  the  shroud  of  slavery  thrown ; 
Thy  proudest  chiefs,  thy  noblest  warriors  dead, 

And  all  thy  pride  and  all  thy  glory  gone. 

"  Farewell  to  Alhambra,  dear  home  of  my  childhood ! 

Farewell  to  the  land  I  so  proudly  have  cherish'd  ; 
Farewell  to  the  streamlet,  the  glen,  and  the  wild-wood, 

The  throne  of  my  fathers  whose  glory  has  perish'^  ! 
'Neath  the  crest  of  Nevada  the  bright  sun  is  setting, 

And  tinging  with  gold  yonder  beautiful  river, 
And  his  rays  seem  to  linger,  as  if  half-regretting 

They  must  leave  the  clear  waves  where  so  sweetly  they  quiver. 

"  Farewell,  thou  bright  valley  !  I  leave  thee  with  sorrow ; 
Thou  wilt  smile  as  serene  'neath  the  sun  of  the  morrow  ; 
But  thine  ill-fated  monarch  shall  view  thee  no  more, 
He  ne'er  shall  revisit  thy  beautiful  shore." 
He  paused ;  and  the  accents  of  heart-rending  grief 
Were  borne  by  the  wind  past  each  murmuring  leaf. 

Cease,  cease  these  vain  wailings  !"  Ayxa  replied, 
"  Nor  languish  and  weep  like  thy  timid  young  bride  ; 

Why  mourn  like  a  maid,  who  in  sorrow  will  bend,2 

For  what  as  a  man  thou  couldst  never  defend  ! 

Then  cease  these  vain  wailings,  which  womanlike  pour, 

Or  Ayxa  la  Horra  will  own  thee  no  more  ; 

Granada  has  fallen,  her  glory  has  fled, 

Her  warriors  and  chieftains  now  sleep  with  the  dead , 

But  who  has  surrender'd  her  walls  to  our  foe, 

And  branded  her  honour  with  shame's  crimson  glow  ?" 

The  tear  to  his  eyelid  unconsciously  sprung, 
But  back  the  intruder  he  eagerly  flung, 
And  cried,  in  a  tone  which  with  frenzy  might  blend, 
"  Defamed  by  my  country,  and  scorn'd  by  my  friend  1" 
They  slowly  ascended  a  rock  towering  high, 
Which  long  shall  re-echo  BoabdiPs  last  sigh  ;3 
13* 


168  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

No  prospect  of  beauty  his  mourning  heart  cheers, 
And  he  murmurs  farewell  on  the  dark  hill  of  tears.4 

Though  grief  and  remorse  with  terrors  oppress'd  him  ; 
Though  peace  and  affection  ne'er  tranquilly  blest  him ; 
Though  his  kingdom  was  captured,  his  warriors  were  dying, 
Himself  from  the  fury  of  Ferdinand  flying; 
Through  the  tumult  of  feeling  his  pride  had  sustain'd  him, 
Had  his  griefs  but  a  mother's  fond  sympathy  gain'd  him; 
But  the  pride  of  a  princess  affection  o'ercame 
And  with  basest  dishonour  she  branded  his  name. 

Reproachful  invectives  unthinking  she  shower'd, 

"  His  country  was  fallen,  its  monarch  a  coward  ?" 

The  proud  Ayxa  loved  her  yielding  son, 

And  would  have  died  had  death  his  glory  won  ; 

But  she  had  hoped  his  rising  fame  to  see, 

Had  long'd  to  view  his  vanquished  foemen  flee. 

This  cherish'd  object  of  each  glowing  thought 

Stern  disappointment  now  had  torn  away, 
And  left  a  gaping  wound,  with  frenzy  fraught ; 

For  hope  and  fancy  pourM  no  cheering  ray. 
The  mother  was  forgot  in  stately  pride, 

While  bitter  anguish  drew  the  trembling  tear; 
He  claim'd  her  pity — she  could  only  chide, 

And  laugh  to  scorn  his  cowardice  and  fear. 

But  the  fair  Zorahayda  his  beautiful  bride, 
To  soothe  his  affliction,  remain'd  at  his  side  ; 
Each  thought  found  an  answering  chord  in  her  bosom, 
Which  glow'd  with  affection's  first  beautiful  blossom  : 
'Twas  warm  as  the  sunbeam,  and  bright  as  its  glance; 
*  Twas  clear  as  the  ripples  which  fairy-like  dance  ; 
Each  thought  and  each  feeling  which  dwelt  in  her  soul 
Her  eye  and  her  countenance  told  him  the  whole. 

Yes,  she,  the  young,  the  beautiful,  the  gay, 
To  sorrow's  dread  abode  love  call'd  away  ! 
From  her  dark  eye  she  wiped  the  starting  tear, 
And  by  his  side  repress'd  each  rising  fear; 
Though  dark  despair  should  dim  each  future  day, 
And  even  hope  refuse  her  cheering  ray, 
Her  fairy  form  would  bless  his  wandering  eyes, 
Like  some  pure  spirit  from  the  glowing  skies. 

Reposing  'mid  Alhambra's  shady  bowers, 
She  cheer'd  his  lonely  and  his  weary  hours ; 
But  when,  alas  !  his  brow  no  longer  wore 
The  crown,  which  proudly  grac'd  his  front  before, 
When  fickle  Moors  forsook  his  tottering  throne, 
When,  glory,  power,  and  kingly  state  were  gone, 
And  threatening  clouds  were  seen  around  to  lower, 
Then,  then  he  felt  the  more  her  witching  power. 

Vanquish'd  at  last  upon  the  battle  field, 
And  forced  Granada's  lofty  towers  to  yield, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  MS) 

Still  the  fair  bud  of  promise  brightly  glow'd, 
From  her  heart's  depths  the  warm  affections  flow'd ; 
She  sweetly  soothed  his  cares,  she  blest  his  name, 
And  sorrow  fann'd  to  light  the  kindling  flame 
Which  burn'd  within  that  tender,  faithful  mind, 
To  all  his  faults,  and  all  his  errors  blind. 

How  sweet  the  communion  of  kindred  minds, 

When  sorrow  each  hope  hath  blighted  ; 
When  the  heart  which  is  bursting  with  agony  finds 

One  face  with  pure  sympathy  lighted. 
And  must  he  from  the  fair  Zorahayda  be  banish'd, 

Must  the  charm  of  existence  for  ever  be  broken,  ? 
Has  every  fond  dream  of  prosperity  vanish'd, 

Must  he  sigh  over  love's  wither'd  token  ? 
In  the  tower  of  Gomares  he  gather'd  a  few, 

And  his  warriors,  still  faithful,  he  rallied, 
The  broad  Moorish  banner  far  over  them  flew, 

And  forth  to  the  battle  he  sallied. 
He  return'd — and  his  eye  was  cast  down  in  despair, 

The  glow  on  his  cheek  was  still  deeper ; 
**  Farewell  to  Granada !  our  foemen  are  there  !" 

Loudly  echoes  the  voice  of  the  weeper. 
"  Come,  wife  of  my  bosom  !  together  we  '11  wander, 

The  storm  of  affliction  together  we  '11  brave ; 
And  perchance  in  some  distant  and  desolate  region, 

We  may  find  a  lone  shelter,  a  home,  and  a  grave, 
I  would  not  my  spirit  should  quit  its  sad  mansion 

'Mid  the  taunts  and  revilings  of  conquering  Spain, 
Where  the  foot  of  the  victor  would  tread  o'er  my  ashes, 

And  reproach  and  dishonour  would  tarnish  my  name. 
**  Oh,  gaze  on  yon  parapets  towering  on  high, 

Those  pillars  of  pride  were  but  yesterday  mine ; 
But  to-day  we  are  doom'd  from  their  splendours  to  fly — 

Weep  not  for  rny  sorrows,  I  mourn  but  for  thine ; 
Those  halls  shall  re-echo  the  loud  voice  of  grief, 

Those  fountains  in  murmurs  respond  to  our  sorrow, 
But  ne'er  can  they  waken  the  bright  smile  again, 

Which  woe  from  gay  pleasure  a  moment  would  borrow 
**  Around  those  gay  mansions  and  beautiful  bowers 

The  foot  of  the  stranger  contemptuous  shall  press ; 
Unmark'd  the  bright  fountains,  uncultured  the  flowers, 

No  fair  hand  to  cherish,  no  soft  voice  to  bless, 
Ill-fated  Boabdil !  thy  name  shall  be  hated  ! 

The  babe  shall  repeat  it  with  moaning  and  tears, 
And  the  eye  which  was  sparkling,  with  pleasure  elated, 

Indignant  shall  glance  on  thy  cowardly  fears."' 
He  paused,  and  led  away  his  mourning  bride, 
In  grief  his  solace,  and  in  joy  his  pride. 
But  whither  do  his  weary  footsteps  bend  ?5 
What  clime  his  broken  heart  one  joy  can  lend  ? 
Where  can  he  now  from  shame  despairing  fly, — 
Beneath  what  golden  sun,  what  beaming  sky  ? 


100  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

On  Afric's  arid  plains  and  yellow  sands, 
Leagued  with  the  Moslem's  wild  and  ruthless  bands, 
With  desperate  force  he  grasp'd  the  fatal  lance, 
And  shrank  not  at  the  scimitar's  broad  glance ; 
Fighting  for  strangers'  rights  he  bravely  fell, 
While  his  own  land  was  sunk  in  slavery's  spell ; 
Far  from  affection's  soft  and  soothing  hand, 
Interr'd  by  strangers  in  a  foreign  land. 

How  strange  the  structure  of  the  human  heart, 
Which  springs  anew  'neath  sorrow's  quivering  dart ; 
Bursting  from  wild  despair,  from  sullen  gloom, 
And  fired  by  frenzy,  hastening  to  the  tomb. 
Reckless  of  danger, — rushing  to  the  strife, — 
For  strangers  bleeding, — yielding  even  life, — 
Thus  did  Boabdil  sink  on  Afric's  plain, 
His  name  dishonour'd  in  his  own  bright  Spain  ! 


NOTES  TO  BOABDIL  EL  CHICO. 

NOTE  I. 

"  Behold  yon  gate  !  the  ancient  sages  say." 

On  the  keystone  of  the  arch  is  engraven  a  gigantic  hand  ;  within  the  vestibule  on  the 
keystone  of  the  portal  is  engraven  in  like  manner  a  gigantic  key.  Those  who  pretend  to 
some  knowledge  of  Mahometan  symbols  affirm,  that  the  hand  is  an  emblem  of  doctrine, 
and  the  key  of  faith.  The  latter,  they  add,  was  emblazoned  on  the  standard  of  the  Mos 
lems,  when  they  subdued  Andalusia,  in  opposition  to  the  Christian  emblem  of  the  cross. 
According  to  Mateo,  it  is  a  tradition  handed  down  from  the  oldest  inhabitants,  that  the 
hand  and  key  were  magical  devices,  upon  which  the  fate  of  the  Alhambra  depended. — 
The  Moorish  king  who  built  it  was  a  great  magician,  and,  as  some  believe,  had  sold  him 
self  to  the  devil,  and  had  lain  the  whole  fortress  under  a  magical  spelt.  This  spell,  the 
tradition  went  on  to  say,  would  last  till  the  hand  on  the  outer  arch  should  reach  down  and 
grasp  the  key,  when  the  whole  pile  would  tumble  to  pieces,  and  all  the  treasures  buried 
beneath  it  by  the  Moors  would  be  revealed. — Irving. 

NOTE  II. 

"  Why  mourn  as  a  maid,  who  in  sorrow  will  bend." 

It  was  here,  too,  his  affliction  was  embittered  by  the  reproaches  of  his  mother  Ayxa  who 
had  often  assisted  him  in  times  of  peril,  and  had  vainly  sought  to  instil  into  him  a  portion 
of  her  own  resolute  spirit — "  Why  mourn  as  a  woman,  for  that  which  as  a  man  you  could 
not  defend  ?"— Irving. 

NOTE  III. 

"  Which  long  shall  re-echo  Boabdil's  last  sigh." 

Beyond  the  embowered  regions  of  the  Vega,  you  behold  a  line  of  arid  hills.  It  was 
from  the  summit  of  one  of  these  that  the  unfortunate  Boabdil  cast  back  his  last  look  on 
Granada,  and  gave  vent  to  the  agony  of  his  soul.  It  is  the  spot  famous  in  song  and  his 
tory  as  "  The  Last  Sigh  of  the  Moor."— Irving. 

NOTE  IV. 

"And  he  murmur'd  farewell  on  the  dark  hill  of  tears." 
Another  name  given  to  the  hill  on  the  summit  of  which  he  bade  farewell  to  Granada. 

NOTE  V. 

"  But  whither  do  his  weary  footsteps  bend  ?" 

After  leaving  the  Alpuxarra  mountains  he  proceeded  to  Africa,  and  died  in  defence  of 
the  territories  of  Muley  Aben,  King  of  Fez.  On  leaving  Spain,  a  band  of  faithful  follow 
ers  and  the  members  of  his  household  collected  on  the  beach,  to  bid  him  farewell.  As  the 
vessel  in  which  he  had  embarked  was  slowly  floating  onward,  they  shouted,  "  Farewell, 
Boabdil!  Allah  preserve  thee,  El  Zogoybi !"  (or  the  unlucky.)  The  name  thus  given  him 
nank  s<>  deeply  into  his  heart,  that  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  was  unable  to  speak 
from  emotion. 


>%T^1^ 

•*fis 


POETICAL  REMAINS 
THE  SHUNAMITE. 


THE  sun  had  gently  shed  his  twilight  beams 

O'er  Shunam's  graceful  waving  harvest  fields, 

And  with  his  golden  rays  each  object  tinged, 

Imparting  to  all  nature  hues  of  joy: 

The  western  sky  had  caught  his  parting  ray, 

And  with  reflected  glory  shone  above, 

In  all  the  lovely  varied  hues  which  deck 

A  summer  sky ;  masses  of  floating  cloud 

Hung  gorgeous  in  the  clear,  blue  firmament, 

Brilliant  as  are  the  fairest  rainbow's  hues ; 

While  round  them  spread  the  light  and  silver  haze, 

Beyond  whose  fold  the  eye  could  just  discern 

The  pure  transparence  of  the  azure  heaven. 

The  scene  was  beautiful !     A  tranquil  sleep 

Seem'd  on  the  brow  of  nature  lightly  resting  ! 

It  was  an  hour  when  the  pure  soul  might  rise 

And  dwell  in  sweet  communion  with  its  God, 

And  contemplation,  and  unmingled  love 

Find  for  a  while  repose  and  silence  there. 

But  where  is  she,  the  gentle,  lovely  mother, 

Whose  soul  delighted  in  an  hour  like  this  ? 

Oh,  why  does  not  her  footstep  softly  shake 

From  the  moist  grass  the  drops  of  pearly  dew  ? 

Say,  have  the  glittering  charms  of  wealth  and  pride 

Allured  her  from  the  sweetest  charms  of  nature? 

Have  the  gay  baubles  she  was  wont  to  scorn 

Enticed  her  from  this  lovely  scene  away  ? 

It  cannot  be  ;  perchance  amid  the  sick 

Or  suffering  poor,  her  pitying  spirit 

Finds  sweet  employment,  while  her  liberal  hand 

Offers  relief  to  the  sad  prisoners 

Who  on  her  bounty  live.     No  !  while  her  heart 

Was  free  from  care  and  racking  anguish, 

She  could  soothe  another's  grief;  but  now — 

Alas  !  how  alter'd  now — her  darling  child, 

The  laughing,  sprightly  boy,  who  at  her  side 

Was  wont  in  childish  frolic  to  remain — 

Where  is  he  now  ?     The  tones  of  his  soft  voice 

Would  soothe  a  mourner's  heart,  however  sad, 

Much  more  the  mother's,  who  so  dearly  loved  him — 

Ay,  loved  him  !  for  she  now  hath  nought  to  love 

Save  the  cold  remnant  of  what  once  was  life  ! 

Yes '.  in  the  splendid  mansion  which  but  seems 

To  mock  her  heartfelt  agony,  she  weeps, 

And  weeping,  watches  o'er  the  lifeless  corpse 

Of  her  adored,  her  beautiful,  her  boy. 

Perhaps  just  heaven  removed  this  cherish'd  flower, 

That  her  own  heart,  bereft  of  earthly  joy, 

Might  cling  more  closely  to  her  God  and  Maker. 

I  know  not — but  the  blow  was  keenly  felt, 

And  deeply,  truly  mourn'd 


162  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

The  spacious  room 

With  rich  embroider'd  tapestry  was  hung. 
And,  mingled  with  the  massy,  crimson  folds, 
Shone  many  a  gem  of  burning  lustre. 
The  floor  was  paved  with  polish'd  marble, 
And  the  lifeless  form  which  lay  before  her 
Was  array'd  in  costly  garments ;  but  she, 
Vainly  communing  there  with  icy  death, 
If  at  her  feet  lay  all  the  wealth  of  nations, 
One  speaking  glance  of  life  from  those  sweet  eyes 
Now  closed  ibr  ever,  had  been  worth  it  all. 
The  boy  lay  gently  cradled  on  the  knee 
Of  the  fond  mother,  and  her  crimson  robe 
Around  his  form  was  wrapt;  while  on  one  arm 
His  fair  young  head  was  pillow'd,  and  her  brow, 
Her  aching  brow,  reclined  upon  the  other. 
The  auburn  curls  around  his  temples  clung, 
Clustering  in  beauty  there,  and  the  blue  veins, 
So  clearly  seen  'neath  the  transparent  skin, 
Seem'd  flowing  still  with  life-blood  ;  the  long  lash 
Of  his  blue,  half-closed  eye  appear'd  to  tremble 
On  his  fair  cheek,  while  the  fast-rolling  tears 
Which  from  his  mother's  darker  orbits  fell, 
Droop'd  from  his  snowy  brow,  as  they  had  rested 
Upon  a  marble  statue. 

Her  grief 

Burst  forth  awhile  in  sobs  and  bitter  groans ; 
But  when  the  view  of  death  had  for  a  time 
Met  her  dull  vision,  and  the  sight  of  sorrow 
Grew  more  familiar,  then  her  full  heart 
Burst  forth  in  words,  simple  but  plaintive. 
Sweetly  pathetic  were  the  gentle  tones 
Of  her  melodious  voice ;  no  ear 
Could  listen  but  to  pity,  and  no  eye 
That  saw  her  but  must  gaze  and  weep. 

LAMENT. 

And  art  thou  gone,  my  beautiful,  my  boy, 
Thy  sorrowing  father's  pride,  thy  mother's  joy ! 
I  had  not  thought,  my  child,  to  view  thee  so, 
In  death's  cold  clasp  laid  motionless  and  low  ! 
I  had  not  thought  to  close  thy  beaming  eyes, 
To  hear  thy  dying  groans,  thy  feeble  cries. 
Alas  !  that  thus  for  thee  my  tears  should  flow  ! 
I  thought  not  that  this  form,  so  fair  and  bright, 
Death  with  his  chilling  arrows  e'er  could  blight ; 
And  oh,  my  child,  my  child,  it  cannot  be 
That  his  cold  hand  hath  rested  upon  thee  ! 
That  this  fair  form,  so  active  but  to-day, 
Is  now  a  senseless,  lifeless  mass  of  clay — 
Dust  of  the  earth,  fit  subject  for  decay ! 

How  white  thy  brow !  how  beautiful  thy  skin ! 
The  spirit  must  be  resting  still  within ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  163 

The  pure,  warm  blood  thy  lip  is  tinging1  still, — 

The  purple  current  seems  each  vein  to  fill ! 

Oh  no,  it  cannot  he  !     My  boy,  awake  ! 

Rouse  from  this  slumber,  for  thy  mother's  sake  ! 

Rouse,  ere  that  mother's  mourning  heart  shall  break  • 

It  is  not  so !  my  boy  is  gone  for  ever, 

And  I  shall  view  his  face  again,  oh  never  ! 

Ah,  rny  sweet  boy,  I'  ve  watch'd  thine  infant  years 

With  joy  and  grief,  alternate  hopes  and  fears. 
For  many  a  night  I'  ve  borne  thee  on  my  knee, 
Full  many  an  hour  of  care  I've  spent  for  thee ; 

Thy  joy  would  glad  me,  and  thy  grief  bring  tears. 

Fond  fancy  pictured  thee  a  noble  man, 

The  fairest  work  in  nature's  wondrous  plan ; 

The  foremost  leader  in  each  patriot  band, 

Redeeming  Syria  from  her  foe  man's  hand ; 

Fearless  in  battle,  swiftest  in  the  race, 

Replete  with  courage,  virtue,  strength,  and  grace ; 

I  saw  thee  generous,  noble,  active,  mild. 

And  blest  the  hero  as  my  darling  child ! 

But  oh,  my  God  !  these  hopes  were  crush'd  by  thee , 
How  shall  I  murmur  at  thy  dread  decree  ! 
Hush,  rebel  spirit !  whispering  conscience  tells 
I  should  not  vent  each  troubled  thought  which  swells 

In  my  torn  heart — my  woes  I'll  speak  no  more, 
Nor  each  vain  thought  which  there  impatient  dwells, 

Waiting  for  utterance  at  my  bosom's  door. 
Rouse,  dormant  soul !  nor  sleep  when  needed  most, 
While  thy  frail  bark  on  adverse  seas  is  tost, 
And  all  thy  comfort,  all  thy  hope  is  lost ! 
I'll  hie  me  to  the  prophet's  mountain  home, 
He  shall  redeem  my  darling  from  the  tomb, 
Or  teach  me  how,  resign'd,  to  bear  my  doom. 

She  ceased ; 

A  glance  of  hope  o'er  her  pale  features  flash'd, 
And  with  unwonted  energy  she  raised 
Her  feeble  hands  in  prayer  to  heaven. 
Once  more  she  press'd  her  pallid  lips  upon 
The  marble  forehead  of  her  lovely  boy, 
Then  rising,  laid  the  cold  and  lifeless  load 
from  off  her  bosom,  strong  in  her  despair; 
Then  wildly  throwing  back  the  silken  folds 
Which  droop'd  upon  the  wall,  she  rush'd  along, 
Through  many  a  corridor  and  hall,  illumed 
With  glittering  lamps  and  gems  of  burning  lustre. 
Her  sandall'd  feet  glanced  lightly  on  the  floor, 
And  her  soft  tread  no  answering  echo  gave ; 
But  heavier  far  her  footstep  would  have  been, 
Beneath  the  galling  burden  on  her  heart, 
If  all  had  been  despair ;  but  the  small  grain  of  hope 
Which  linger'd  still  within,  her  onward  course 


164  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Served  but  to  quicken ;  something  in  her  soul 

Seem'd  battling  with  its  sorrow,  and  a  spark, 

Lighted  by  hope,  within,  a  tiny  star, 

Shone  o'er  the  almost  desert  gloom  of  woe. 

She  hasted  on  ;  and  soon  her  form  was  lost, 

In  its  dim  outline,  amid  the  windings 

Of  her  noble  mansion.     Where  hath  she  gone  ? 

Why  at  this  moment  leave  her  lifeless  son  ? 

What  human  voice  can  yield  her  heart  relief? 

What  hand  redeem  her  loved  one  from  the  dust  ? 

Return,  frail  mourner  !  and  indulge  thy  grief, 

Where  none  are  nigh  to  view  its  heartfelt  pangs ; 

Return,  nor  seek  one  sympathetic  heart 

In  the  cold  world  around  thee  :  thou  wilt  see, 

Since  rankling  sorrow  hath  oppress'd  thy  soul, 

All  who  with  smiles  attended  thee  before 

Will  gaze  on  thee  in  scorn,  and  mock  thy  tears, 

Nor  heed  thy  bitter  groans.    Oh  better  far 

In  thine  own  heart  to  hide  each  torturing  grief, 

And  meet  thy  sorrow  here.     But  she  hath  gone  ! 

Twilight  is  stealing  on,  and  she  hath  gone! 

And  where  !  —  Gaze  on  yon  rugged  path,  whicli  leads 

Far  onward  to  the  mountain's  brow,  and  there 

Behold  her  toiling  on  her  weary  way ! 

The  thorny  brambles  meet  along  her  path, 

And  close  around  o'ershadowing  thickets  grow  — 

But  still  she  rushes  on  —  the  piercing  thorn 

Or  fallen  bough,  alike  unheeding  all, 

And  with  despairing  heart  and  weary  step 

Reaches  the  mighty  prophet's  mountain  home. 

****** 
The  last  faint  day-streak  gleams  on  Carmel's  brow, 
And  lights  the  tearful  traveller  on  her  way, 
As  with  the  holy  man  of  God  she  turns 
Her  sorrowing  footsteps  backward  to  her  home  — 
They  enter,  and  once  more  she  stands  beside 
The  silent  couch  of  her  unconscious  boy. 
There,  overcome  by  speechless,  mute  despair, 
Her  agony  how  great !  — Cold,  deathlike  drops 
Hang  on  her  snowy  brow,  and,  half-distracted 
With  o'erwhelming  grief,  she  turns  her  from  the  sight 
Of  the  dear  object  of  her  fondest  love. 

*  *  *  #  * 

Behold  the  prophet !     Lo !  the  man  of  God 
Is  lowly  bending  o'er  the  couch  of  death  — 
His  long,  dark  mantle  floating  loosely  round 
His  tall,  majestic  form  ;  his  silver  locks 
Parted  far  backward  on  his  noble  brow, 
And  his  full,  piercing  eye  upraised  to  heaven  !  — 
His  hands  are  clasp' d  —  the  feeble  fingers 
Trembling  with  emotion,  and  from  his  lips 
Bursts  forth  an  ardent  prayer.     He  ceased, 
And  on  the  body  etretch'd  his  aged  form, 


POETICAL   REMAINS  165 

Press'd  his  warm  lips  upon  the  marble  brow, 
And  chafed  the  infant  limbs. 
'T  is  done  !  —  behold,  the  sleeping  child  awakes, 
And  sweetly  smiles  upon  the  holy  man ! 
And  lo !  the  weeping  mother  clasps  her  boy 
Again,  redeem'd  from  the  embrace  of  death, 
And  strains  him  to  her  throbbing  heart,  as  though 
She  fear'd  the  ruthless  tyrant  yet  once  more 
Might  snatch  him  from  her  arms ! 
While  the  dread  prophet  stands  aloof  from  all, 
And  views  the  object  of  his  fervent  prayer 
Restored  again  to  love,  and  light,  and  life  ! 
1834. 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST. 

THROUGH  proud  Belshazzar's  lofty  halls 

A  wavering  light  is  streaming, 
And  o'er  his  heaven-defying  walls, 

The  blaze  of  torches  gleaming. 
Hark  !  the  voice  of  music  breaks 

Softly  on  the  midnight  air, 
Each  boisterous  shout  of  laughter  speaks 

Of  hearts  untouch'd  by  woe  or  care. 

The  sounds  of  joy  harmonious  floating 

O'er  Euphrates'  silver  tide,  •         J 

Which  flows  in  ripples,  gently  passing 

Near  many  a  tower  of  stately  pride. 
With  mirth,  Belshazzar's  halls  resound, 

Joy  spreads  each  smiling  feature  o'er, 
And  laughing  hundreds  gather  round 

The  red  libations,  as  they  pour 

From  silver  cup,  and  golden  urn, 

Once  mantling  with  the  holy  wine, 
By  impious  hands  in  frenzy  torn 

From  great  Jehovah's  sacred  shrine. 
Surrounded  by  each  smiling  guest, 

In  regal  pomp  and  splendid  state, 
With  all  save  God's  approval  blest, 

The  warrior  king  serenely  sate. 

Their  hearts  demoniac  pleasure  found, 

Exulting  triumph  swell'd  their  strain, 
While  Israel's  children,  captive,  bound, 

Were  groaning  'neath  their  weight  of  pain 
Bright  lamps  o'erhung  the  festive  scene, 

Diffusing  soften'd  brilliance  round, 
While  mocking  Israel's  mighty  Lord, 

They  dash'd  his  wine-cups  to  the  ground, 
14 


166  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Why  does  Belshazzar's  lip  turn  pale  ? 

Why  shrinks  his  form  with  trembling  fear  ? 
Why  fades,  within  his  tiger  eye, 

The  scornful  glance,  the  taunting  sneer  ? 
A  shadowy  cloud  o'erhangs  the  wall, 

A  mighty  hand  each  fold  reveals ! 
There's  silence  in  that  princely  hall, 

And  trembling  awe  each  vein  congeals. 

The  mystic  fingers  darkly  move, 

And  words  unknown  in  silence  trace  ; 
Wide  o'er  the  illumined  walls  they  spread, 

While  horror  fills  each  pallid  face  ! 
Oh  !  who  those  awful  words  may  read, 

Or  who  their  mighty  import  tell? 
What  hand  perform'd  the  fearful  deed, 

What  tongue  may  break  the  magic  spell ! 

Come  forth,  ye  Chaldean  seers  !  come  forth, 

Ye  men  of  Egypt's  burning  soil! 
Let  the  dread  words  your  thoughts  employ, 

And  be  the  object  of  your  toil ! 
Oh,  gaze  upon  the  glowing  wall! 

Ha !  proud  magicians,  do  ye  shrink  ? 
Say,  does  the  sight  your  hearts  appal 

As  if  on  death's  terrific  brink  ? 

Now,  strive  to  win  the  golden  crown, 

The  scarlet  robe,  the  badge  of  power — 
And  tell  if  heaven  in  justice  frown, 

If  round  your  king  the  tempest  lower. 
But  still  they  shrink  with  innate  fear, 

Still  from  the  awful  scene  retire  ; 
While  trembling  lips  proclaim  their  awe, 

And  rouse  the  monarch's  fiercest  ire. 

Who  may  the  characters  explain, 
When  Chaldea's  ancient  sages  fail  ? 

Must  the  dread  secret  thus  remain 
Wrapt  in  its  dark  mysterious  veil  ? 

Come  forth,  thou  man  of  God,  come  forth . 

By  heaven  beloved,  by  man  reviled, 
Robed  in  the  mantle  of  thy  faith, 

Come  forth,  Jehovah's  chosen  child  ! 
Fear  not  to  read  Belshazzar's  fate ! 

Thy  heavenly  Father  guides  thee  still  ! 
Though  robed  in  scarlet,  throned  in  state, 

Thy  God  can  mould  him  at  his  will. 

Oh,  mark  his  firm,  majestic  mien  ! 

Oh,  mark  his  broad  and  lofty  brow  ! 
With  soflen'd  courage,  calm,  serene, 

And  flush' d  with  conscious  virtue's  glow. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  167 

Well  might  they  shrink  before  the  man, 
Whose  gaze  had  reach'd  the  realms  of  bliss, 

Whose  eye  had  pierced  a  brighter  world, 
Whose  spotless  soul  had  soar'd  from  this. 

Oh,  hark  !  his  firm  and  manly  voice 

Is  heard  within  that  princely  hall ; 
No  more  the  impious  crowds  rejoice, 

But  thrilling  silence  spreads  o'er  all. 
"  Oh  king !  in  wealth,  and  pride,  and  power, 

At  God's  great  footstool  humbly  fall, 
That  God  hath  seal'd  thy  doom  this  hour, 

'Tis  stamp'd  on  yonder  fated  wall. 

"  Thy  stubborn  knee  was  never  bent, 

Thy  earthly  heart  was  humbled  never 
Before  the  throne  of  Israel's  God, 

Of'life,  of  breath,  of  power  the  giver. 
Against  the  Lord  of  heaven  thy  hand 

In  bold  impiety  is  raised, 
And  vessels  sacred  to  his  name 

The  feasts  of  idol  gods  have  graced. 

He,  in  whose  balance  lords  of  earth 

With  justice,  mercy,  power,  are  tried, 
Hath  weigh'd  thine  errors  and  thy  worth, 

But  virtue  is  o'ercome  by  pride. 
From  death  thou  art  no  longer  free, 

Thy  sun  of  glory  shall  decline ; 
The  golden  crown  no  more  shall  bind 

That  proud,  ambitious  brow  of  thine. 

"  The  Medes  and  Persians  shall  possess 

That  which  so  lately  was  thine  own  ; 
God  will  e'en  now  our  wrongs  redress, 

And  hurl  thee  from  thy  tottering  throne." 
He  ceased, — an  awful  silence  reign'd, 

And  chain'd  each  scarcely  throbbing  breast. 
Where  were  the  passions  once  so  rude  ? — 

LulPd  by  the  prophet's  voice  to  rest  ? 

Gaze  on  Belshazzar's  pallid  brow, 

And  trace  the  livid  horror  there ; 
Big  drops  o'erhang  its  surface  now, 

And  backward  starts  the  clustering  hair ; 
His  eyeballs  strain'd,  and  wildly  staring 

Upon  the  spot  which  bears  his  doom, 
Seem  like  a  frighted  lion  glaring 

Through  the  dark  forest's  lonely  gloom. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Morn  hath  brighten'd  o'er  Chaldea, 

Morning,  lovely,  fragrant,  bright, 
Glory  crowns  a  night  of  terror, 

Deeds  of  darkness  view  her  light. 


168  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Euphrates'  waves  are  brightly  sparkling 
Beneath  Aurora's  rosy  beam, 

As  though  the  night  had  never  darken'd 
Above  its  broad  and  rapid  stream. 

The  close  of  evening  view'd  it  smiling, 

Deck'd  with  barks  and  forms  of  light, 
The  weary  moments  still  beguiling, 

Sporting  on  its  bosom  bright. 
Where  are  all  its  beauties  banish'd  ? 

Why  its  banks  so  lone  and  still  ? 
Have  all  its  pride  and  glory  vanish'd, 

All  save  desolation  chill? 

The  Mede  and  Persian  have  been  here, 
Heaven's  just  vengeance  to  fulfil  j 

Proud  Belshazzar  reigns  no  more, 

God  has  wrought  his  sovereign  will. 
1834. 


TO  MY  MOTHER  ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

WHEN  last  this  morning  brightly  shone 

Around  my  youthful  head, 
Inspiring  love  and  joy  and  glee, 

Dismissing  fear  and  dread, 

I  thought  not  I  should  see  thee  here 
Reclining  on  thy  Margaret's  breast ; 

I  thought  that  in  a  brighter  sphere 
Thy  weary  soul  would  sweetly  rest. 

But  since  the  mighty  God  above 

Has  granted  this  my  fervent  prayer, 

My  heart  is  fill'd  with  joy  and  love 
For  all  his  kindness  and  his  care. 

Oh,  may  his  guardian  wings  o'erspread, 
To  guard  from  sorrow,  pain,  or  harm, 

My  mother's  weary  aching  head, 
And  every  rising  fear  disarm. 

May  sweet  reflections  soothe  thy  cares, 
And  fill  with  peace  thy  beating  heart, 

And  may  the  feast  which  love  prepares 
A  sweet  security  impart. 

When  He,  who  warm'd  thy  gentle  soul, 
And  planted  every  virtue  there, 

Shall  snatch  thee  hence  to  realms  of  bliss, 
And  free  from  earthly  sin  and  care, 

Oh,  may  a  daughter's  tender  hand 
The  pillow  of  affliction  smooth, 
Teach  every  grief  to  lose  its  pang, 
And  every  sorrow  fondly  soothe. 
1834. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  169 


ON  VISITING  THE  PANORAMA  OF  GENEVA. 

OH,  if  a  painter's  touch  can  form  thee  thus, 
So  bright  with  all  an  artist's  hand  can  give, 

How  passing  beautiful  those  scenes  must  be, 
Which  here  inanimate,  there  sweetly  live ! 

Each  verdant  shrub,  which  here  inactive  bends, 

So  gently  waving  o'er  the  placid  stream, 
And  the  sweet,  brook,  which  winds  so  silent  now, 

Reflecting  back  the  sun's  effulgent  beam. 

Look,  where  the  mighty  torrent  of  the  Rhone, 
Far,  far  beyond  my  wandering  eye  extends, 

And  see  yon  crumbling  fort,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
O'er  whose  high  walls  the  weeping  willow  bends. 

Mark  on  the  right,  yon  broad  expanse  of  blue, 

Lake  Leman,  placid,  beautiful,  and  fair, 
So  gently  murmuring,  as  it  flows  along, 

Of  peace  and  happiness  implanted  there. 

And  towering  far  above,  the  mighty  Alps 

Rear  their  tall  heads  terrific  and  sublime, 
Each  snow-capp'd  summit  mingling  with  the  clouds, 

Seems  to  defy  the  ravages  of  time. 

It  seems  as  though  the  glowing  canvass  moved, 
Each  figure  fill'd  with  life  and  joy  and  love, 

As  if  the  dark  blue  waters  at  my  feet 

Would  break  the  chain  which  binds  them  there,  and  move. 

Each  hill,  each  rock  seem  bursting  into  life, 

The  painter  mock'd  reality  so  well ; 
It  seems  as  if  those  shadowy  forms  would  speak, 

Could  they  but  break  the  artist's  magic  spell. 
18'as.. 


THE  FUNERAL  BELL. 

HARK  !  the  loudly  pealing  bell 

Rises  on  the  morning  air ; 
Its  tones  subdued  and  sadly  swell, 

For  death,  unpitying  death  is  there  ! — 
Hark  !  again  it  peals  aloud, 

Bearing  sorrow  on  its  tone  ; 
While  from  the  sad  assembled  crowd, 

Is  heard  the  echoing  sob  and  groan, 
Yes,  in  that  solemn  note  is  heard 

A  voice  proclaiming  woe  and  death  * 
A  voice  which  tells  of  endless  time, 

Of  sorrow's  desolating  breath. 
To  the  warm  fancy  it  would  say, 

In  words  which  strike  the  heart  with  fear ; 
14* 


170  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Words  for  the  thoughtless,  vain,  and  gay. 
Words  echoed  from  the  sable  bier — 

"  A  spirit  from  the  world  hath  fled, 

A  soul  from  earth  departed  ; 
While  mourners  weep  above  the  dead, 

Despairing — broken-hearted  ! 
Through  the  vast  fields  of  viewless  time 

That  conscious  soul  hath  gone ; 
To  answer  for  each  earthly  crime, 

At  God's  eternal  throne. 

"  There  at  his  mighty  bar  it  stands, 

A  trembling,  guilty  thing, 
To  ans.wer  all  his  Judge  demands, 

Or  his  dread  praises  sing  ! 
Dust  to  its  kindred  dust  returns  ! 

Earth  to  its  mother  earth  ! 
Still'd  are  its  passions  and  its  cares, 

And  hush'd  its  voice  of  mirth. 

"  Then  learn  from  this  how  weak  and  vain 

Is  every  earthly  gift ; 
How  in  one  instant  all  may  fade, 

And  leave  thee  thus  bereft ! 
When  thy  fond  heart  is  filled  with  joy, 

With  gay  and  mirthful  feeling, 
Bethink  thee,  that  the  form  of  death 

Beside  thee  may  be  stealing ; 
That  ere  another  hour  has  past, 

That  rosy  smile  may  fade, 
And  the  light  form  that  glides  so  fast, 

In  the  cold  tomb  be  laid. 

"  That  the  young  heart  within  that  clay, 
To  God's  dread  bar  shall  pass  away, 

And  the  dim  future,  dark  to  thee, 
Shall  bear  it  on  its  tideless  sea, 

To  light  or  darkness,  joy  or  woe, 
Just  as  thy  life  hath  pass'd  below." 

1834. 


VERSES  WRITTEN  WHEN  TWELVE  YEARS  OF  AGE. 
LINES  ON  RECEIVING  A  BLANK-BOOK  FROM  MY  MOTHER. 

THOUGH  the  new  year  has  open'd  in  sickness  and  fear, 
Though  its  dawning  has  witness'd  the  sigh  and  the  tear, 
Though  the  load  on  my  heart  and  the  weight  on  my  brain, 
And  the  sadness  around  me  cause  sorrow  and  pain, 
Each  feeling  of  woe  from  my  bosom  is  driven 
While  I  view  the  sweet  volume  affection  has  given, 
And  gazing  delighted  on  binding  and  leaf, 
I  forget  every  thought  which  is  tinctured  with  griefl 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  171 

Though  it  needed  no  gift  from  my  mother  to  prove 
The  depth  of  that  current  of  long-cherish'd  love, 
Which  hath  flow'd  on  unceasing,  unaltering  still, 
Through  sorrows  unable  its  bright  waves  to  chill, 
Yet  'tis  strangely  delightful,  'tis  sweet  to  possess 
Some  mementos  to  cherish  and  gaze  on  like  this, 
Some  gift  which  long  hence  may  impart  to  the  mind 
Fresh  hues  of  the  image  there  sweetly  enshrined : 
Which,  when  every  gay  feeling  is  clouded  with  night, 
May  burst  on  the  soul  like  an  angel  of  light, 
And  presenting  unalter'd  the  visions  of  love, 
Which  had  slumber'd  awhile  the  more  sweetly  to  soothe 
May  illumine  the  darkness  with  radiance  sublime, 
But  more  bright  from  repose,  and  unclouded  by  time. 
Oh,  think  not,  my  mother,  I  ever  shall  part 
From  a  token  thus  soothing,  and  sweet  to  my  heart; 
That  the  dear  little  volume  thus  coming  from  thee, 
Shall  e'er  be  less  valued,  less  cherish'd  by  me. 
When  the  fathomless  future  its  page  shall  unfold, 
When  time  o'er  this  head  now  so  youthful  has  roll'd, 
And  left  me  like  others,  gray,  wither'd  and  old, 
Then,  then  shall  this  gift  of  the  merry  new  year, 
From  the  loved  one  whose  spirit  no  longer  is  here, 
Impart  a  sweet  sadness,  and  draw  the  warm  tear. 
'T  will  bring  to  remembrance  my  own  lovely  home, 
And  each  feeling,  each  hope,  which  is  now  in  its  bloom, 
As  a  fair  little  talisman  bound  up  with  joy 
'T  will  be  clasp'd  to  my  bosom  its  fond  hopes  to  buoy 
And  the  love  now  within  it  must  cease  there  to  dwell, 
When  I  bid  this  dear  volume  a  lasting  farewell, 
1835. 


TO  FANCY. 

FLY  on,  aerial  Fancy!  fly 

Back,  back  through  many  an  age, 

To  scenes  which  long  have  glided  by, 
Untold  on  history's  page. 

Oh,  stretch  thy  heavenward  wings,  and  soar 
Through  clouds  mysterious  and  sublime, 

To  scenes  which  earth  shall  view  no  more, 
Far  down  the  dark  abyss  of  time. 

Lit  by  thy  pure,  celestial  torch, 

Earth,  heaven,  and  sea  have  softly  glow'd, 
Nought  in  created  space  which  ne'er 

To  thine  enchanting  sway  hath  bow'd. 

Worlds  framed  and  beautified  by  thee, 
Have  glow'd  with  every  rainbow  hue, 

And  o'er  each  meaner  thing  thy  form 
Hath  shed  a  radiance  as  it  flow. 


112  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

All  potent  Fancy !  deign  to  bend 
One  glance  upon  thy  suppliant  here ! 

Thy  glowing  car  in  kindness  send, 
And  bear  me  to  thy  beauteous  sphere. 

Believe  me,  thou  hast  ever  been 

The  cherish'd  monarch  of  my  heart! 

There 's  not  one  thought,  one  hope,  one  scene, 
In  which  thy  vagaries  have  no  part. 

Then  deign  to  look  with  pitying  eye 

Upon  thy  votary's  bended  form ; 
Disperse  each  cloud  from  yonder  sky, 
And  clasp  me  in  thy  guardian  arm. 
1835. 


INVOCATION  TO  SPRING. 

BEND  down  from  thy  chariot,  oh  beautiful  Spring, 

Unfold  like  a  standard  thy  radiant  wing, 

And  beauty  and  joy  in  thy  rosy  path  bring ! 

We  long  for  thy  coming,  sweet  goddess  of  love, 

We  watch  for  thy  smile  in  the  pure  sky  above, 

And  we  sigh  for  the  hour  when  the  wood  birds  shall  sing, 

And  nature  shall  welcome  thee,  beautiful  Spring  ! 

How  the  lone  heart  will  bound  as  thy  presence  draws  near, 

As  if  borne  from  this  world  to  some  lovelier  sphere  !    * 

How  the  fond  soul  to  meet  thee  in  raptures  shall  rise, 

When  thy  first  blush  has  tinted  the  earth  and  the  skies. 

Oh,  send  thy  soft  breath  on  the  icy -bound  stream, 

'T  will  vanish,  't  will  melt,  like  the  forms  in  a  dream, 

Released  from  its  chains,  like  a  child  in  its  glee, 

'T  will  flow  in  its  beauty,  all  sparkling  and  free. 

It  will  spring  on  in  joy,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

And  hail  thee  with  music,  oh  beautiful  Spring ! 

But  tread  with  thy  foot  on  the  snow-cover'd  plain, 

And  verdure  and  beauty  shall  smile  in  thy  train. 

Only  whisper  one  word  with  thy  seraph-like  voice, 

And  nature  to  hear  the  sweet  sound  shall  rejoice ! 

Oh,  Spring  !  lovely  goddess  !  what  form  can  compare 

With  thine  so  resplendent,  so  glowing,  so  fair  ? 

What  sunbeam  so  bright  as  thy  own  smiling  eye, 

At  whose  glance  the  dark  spirits  of  winter  do  fly  ? 

A  garland  of  roses  is  twined  round  thy  brow, 

Thy  cheek  like  the  pale  blush  of  evening  doth  glow ; 

A  mantle  of  green  o'er  thy  soft  form  is  spread, 

And  the  zephyr's  light  wing  gently  plays  round  thy  head. 

Oh,  could  I  but  mount  on  the  eagle's  dark  wing, 

And  rest  ever  beside  thee,  Spring,  beautiful  Spring ! 

Methinks,  I  behold  thee !  I  hear  thy  soft  voice ! 

And  in  fulness  of  heart  I  rejoice !  I  rejoice ! 


POETICAL   REMAINS.  173 

But  the  cold"  wind  is  moaning,  the  drear  snow  doth  fall, 
And  naught  but  the  shrieking  blast  echoes  my  call. 
Oh,  heed  the  frail  offering  an  infant  can  bring ! 
Oh,  grant  my  petition,  Spring,  beautiful  Spring ! 
1835. 


FROM  THE  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  THIRTY-NINTH  PSALM. 

WHERE  from  thy  presence  shall  I  flee  ? 
Where  seek  a  hiding-place  from  thee? 
If  the  pure  breath  of  heaven  I  share, 
Lo !  I  shall  find  thy  spirit  there  ! 
If  wandering  to  the  depths  of  hell, 
I  trust  in  secresy  to  dwell, 
Behold  !  in  all  thy  power  and  might, 
Thou,  Lord,  shalt  pierce  the  veil  of  night. 
If  on  the  radiant  wings  of  morn 
To  unknown  lands  I  'm  gently  borne ; 
There,  even  there  thy  hand  shall  lead 
Thy  voice  support  my  sinking  head. 
If  to  my  inmost  soul  I  say, 
Darkness  and  night  shall  shroud  my  way, 
That  darkness  shall  dissolve  in  light, 
And  day  usurp  the  throne  of  night. 
No  power  can  dim  thy  searching  eye, 
Or  bid  thy  guardian  spirit  fly. 
Thou  knowest  well  each  infant  thought, 
Which  passion,  pride,  or  sin  has  taught; 
And  doubts  and  fears,  but  half  express'd, 
To  thee,  Almighty,  stand  confess'di 
Plain  as  the  waves  of  yonder  sea, 
Man's  subtlest  thoughts  are  known  to  thee. 
From  the  small  insect  tribe,  which  plays 
Within  the  sun's  enlivening  rays, 
To  the  broad  ocean  waves,  which  rise 
In  heaving  billows  to  the  skies. 
Or  great  or  small,  each  work  of  thine, 
It  whispers  of  a  hand  divine. 
Each  breeze  which  fans  the  twilight  hour, 
Speeds  onward,  guided  by  thy  power ; 
Each  wind  which  wildly  sweeps  abroad, 
Is  teeming  with  the  voice  of  God. 
1835. 


STANZAS. 

mind,  the  for 

iman  heart  c , 

Or  the  deep  and  stirring  thoughts, 
Which  in  the  poet's  bosom  dwell  ! 


THE  power  of  mind,  the  force  of  genius, 
Oh,  what  human  heart  can  tell, 


174  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON 


The  high  and  holy  dreams  of  heaven, 
Which  raise  the  soul  above 

This  world  of  care,  this  sphere  of  sin, 
To  realms  of  light  and  love. 

Oh  who  can  tell  its  energy  ? 

The  spirit's  power  and  might, 
When  genius,  with  sublimest  force, 

Appoints  its  upward  flight, — 

And  lifts  the  struggling  soul  above 

The  prison-house  of  clay, 
To  roam  amid  the  fancied  realms 

Of  glory  and  of  day  ! 

And  breathes  immortal  vigour 
To  sustain  it  through  this  life, 

The  index  of  a  higher  world, 
With  power  and  beauty  rife. 

Oh,  how  sublime  the  very  thought, 
That  this  frail  form  of  mine 

Contains  a  spirit  destined  soon 
In  purer  worlds  to  shine. 

To  unfold  its  infant  energies, 

In  an  immortal  clime, 
And  far  more  glorious  become 

Each  passing  hour  of  time. 

That  it  contains  the  heavenly  germ 

Of  future  being  now, 
Created  there  to  beautify, 

Where  clearer  waters  flow. 

And  there  expand  the  glowing  bud, 
'Mid  worlds  of  light  and  love, 

Through  the  bright  realms  of  ether, 
In  glory  still  to  rove. 


LETTER  TO  A  POETICAL  CORRESPONDENT, 

WRITTEN  DURING  MY  ILLNESS,  IN  ANSWER  TO  ONE  IN  WHICH  SHE  DE 
SCRIBES  PEGASUS  AS  BLIND,  HALT,  AND  LAME,  AND  ENDEAVOURS  TO 
CHEER  ME  WITH  THE  PROSPECT  OF  SPEEDY  RECOVERY. 

Now,  my  dear  Cousin  Maggy,  behold  me  again, 
Relieved  in  a  measure  from  sickness  and  pain ; 
With  a  well-sharpen'd  phiz,  and  a  cap  on  my  head, 
Just  bidding  farewell  to  the  irksome  sick  bed, 
And  endeavouring  to  tune  my  enfeebled  young  lyre 
To  a  theme  which  was  wont  its  wild  notes  to  inspire. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  375 

'Tis  long  since  the  muse  to  my  aid  has  descended, 
Or  smiling  and  pleased,  her  poor  votary  befriended; 
Now  tired  of  entreaties,  I  '11  court  her  no  more, 
But  alone  and  unaided  her  realms  I  '11  explore ; 
So,  dear  cousin  Maggy,  condemn  not  my  rnuse, 
If  my  verse  all  its  rhyme  and  its  harmony  lose, 
For,  vex'd  with  refusals  so  frequent  and  long1, 
Without  her  I  ve  dared  to  engage  in  a  song ; 
And  shielded  and  guided  by  Clio  no  more, 
To  meet  thy  Pegasus  I  tremblingly  soar. 
While  confined  by  the  shackles  of  sickness  and  pain^ 
For  many  a  day  on  my  couch  I  had  lain, 
And  in  seeking  for  rest,  to  my  weak  frame  denied, 
Was  tossing  fatigued  on  each  sore,  aching  side, 
There  came  down  a  tall  spirit  of  light  (as  it  were,) 
From  the  realms  of  the  sky  and  the  regions  of  air ; 
He  dispell'd  from  my  bosom  its  gloom  and  its  dread, 
And  kindled  the  torchlight  of  hope  in  their  stead. 
Ah !  then,  my  dear  friend,  so  great  was  his  power, 
He  could  lighten  my  pain,  and  soothe  solitude's  hour ; 
Ah  why  then,  my  cousin,  thus  brand  him  with  shame 
Ah  why  then  describe  him  as  "  sightless  and  lame?" 
All  noble  and  lovely  he  seem'd  to  mine  eye, 
And  when  ceasing  to  view  him  I  ceased  with  a  sigh  1 
His  wings  were  expanded,  his  eyebeam  was  fire  ! 
And  that  heart  had  been  old  he  could  fail  to  inspire. 
But  alas  !  I  should  fail,  did  I  strive  to  portray 
But  one  half  of  the  graces  which  round  him  did  play, 
And  held  captive  my  soul  with  their  wildering  sway; 
So  no  more  I'll  contemplate  his  charms  or  thine  own, 
But  try  to  inform  you  how  we're  getting  on. 
Dear  mother  still  sits  on  her  old  rocking-chair, 
Either  thinking,  or  smiling,  or  silent  with  care ; 
Then  plying  her  needle  with  industry  still, 
Or  scribbling  and  wearing  some  tarnish'd  goosequill. 
Dear  Matty  is  thinking  of  railroads  again, 
And  longs  to  get  hold  of  the  rod  and  the  chain. 
He  talks  of  embankments,  canals,  and  high-bridges, 
Of  steam-cars  and  tunnels,  of  swamps  and  of  ditches. 
While  dear  little  Kent,  with  his  well-finger'd  book, 
Sits  gazing  around  him  with  complacent  look  ; 
But  alas  !  my  dear  coz,  the  poor  fellow  has  lost 
The  frequent  amusement  he  valued  the  most ; 
For  know,  in  the  midst  of  our  sickness  and  cares, 
The  glass  in  our  parlour  was  carried  up  stairs, 
(Other  furniture  changed — here  was  station'd  a  bed,) 
So  a  mirror  much  smaller  was  placed  in  its  stead, 
And  my  hapless  young  brother  is  able  no  more 
To  admire  his  own  beauty  and  grace  as  before ; 
He  looks  at  the  tempter  all  rueful  and  sad, 
And  in  vain  the  attempt  to  attain  it  is  made, 
And  with  long,  disappointed,  and  sorrowful  mien, 
He  retires  from  the  spot  to  conceal  his  chagrin. 


176  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Oh  !  join,  my  dear  cousin,  with  me,  and  bewail 

That  his  sources  of  pleasure  thus  early  should  faiL 

Old  Zeo,  tired  out  with  his  frolic  and  play, 

Lies  quietly  sleeping  the  rest  of  the  day; 

While  pussy  is  purring  contentedly  near, 

Devoid  of  all  care  and  unconscious  of  fear. 

But  enough  of  this  nonsense  !     I  fain  would  request 

That  my  cousin  again  may  be  honour'd  and  blest 

By  receiving  thy  musical  Nag  as  a  guest : 

His  arrival  I'll  welcome  with  heartfelt  delight, 

And  gaze  on  his  beauties  from  morning  till  night. 

Dear  uncle  and  cousins  I  ne'er  can  forget, 

With  sweet  little  Georgie,  his  Aunty,  and  Kate, 

Give  our  love  to  them  all,  and  yourself  must  receive 

My  warm  and  my  lasting  affection.     Believe, 

I  shall  ever  remain  as  I  now  am  to  thee, 

Your  dear  little  cousin,  and 

MARGARET  M.  D. 
Ballston,  1835. 


STANZAS. 

Though  nought  but  life's  sunshine  has  spread  o'er  my  path, 
Though  no  real  distress  has  e'er  clouded  my  brow  : 

Though  the  storms  of  affliction  around  me  have  past, 

And  shed  o'er  me  nought  save  the  rainbow's  bright  glow  ,' 

Though  nursed  from  the  cradle  with  tenderest  care, 

Though  shelter'd  from  all  that  might  grieve  or  distress ; 

Though  life's  pathway  has  blush'd  with  the  fairest  of  flowers, 
And  my  heavenly  Father  has  ceased  not  to  bless ; 

Though  the  chillness  of  want  and  the  darkness  of  woe 
From  my  joyous  young  spirit  have  rapidly  fled : 

Though  the  presence  of  all  whom  I  cherish  and  love 
Has  not  fail'd  its  sweet  influence  around  me  to  shed ; 

Still,  still  there  are  moments  of  darkness  and  grief, 
Which  steal  o'er  my  soul  like  the  spirit  of  woe ; 

I  know  not  their  coming,  I  feel  not  their  cause, 
But  o'er  my  rapt  spirit  they  silently  flow. 

I  feel  for  a  while  as  some  terrible  blow 

Had  deprived  me  of  comfort,  of  friends,  and  of  home; 
Then  depart  they  as  silent,  and  leave  my  freed  soul 

Again  in  the  bright  path  of  pleasure  to  roam. 

Like  clouds  in  the  sky  of  enjoyment  they  pass, 
And  shed  o'er  my  heart  a  sensation  of  sadness ; 

Like  clouds  do  they  glide  o'er  the  surface  of  light, 
And  leave  me  again  to  the  spirit  of  gladness. 
1835. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  IT7 

VERSES  WRITTEN  WHEN  THIRTEEN  YEARS  OP  AGE. 

VERSIFICATION  FROM  OSSIAN. 

WHERE  the  stream  in  its  wildness  was  rushing  below, 

And  the  oak  in  its  greatness  was  bending  above, 
Fell  Cathba  the  brave  by  the  hand  of  his  foe, 

By  the  hand  of  Duchomar,  his  rival  in  love. 

Duchomar  repair'd  to  the  cave  of  the  wild, 

Where  dwelt  in  her  beauty  the  star  of  his  breast, 
Where  she  wander'd  alone,  nature's  sensitive  child, 

Knowing  little  of  life  but  its  love  and  its  rest 

*Oh,  beautiful  daughter  of  Cormac  the  proud ! 

Oh  Morna,  thou  fairest  that  earth  can  bestow ! 
Why  dwellest  thou  here,  'neath  the  dark,  angry  cloud  ? 

Why  dwellest  thou  here  where  the  wild  waters  flow  ? 

"  The  old  oak  is  murmuring  aloud  in  the  blast, 

Which  ruffles  the  breast  of  the  far  distant  sea, 
The  storm  o'er  the  heavens  his  thick  veil  hath  cast, 

And  the  sky  in  its  sternness  is  frowning  on  thee ! 

"  But  thou  art  like  snow  on  the  black,  wither'd  heath, 

Thy  ringlets  are  soft  as  the  mist  of  the  night, 
When  it  winds  round  the  broad  hill  its  delicate  wreath, 

By  the  sun  at  its  parting  made  gorgeously  bright." 

14  Whnnce  comest  thou,  man  of  the  fierce-rolling  eye  ?'* 
Said  the  beautiful  maid  of  the  dark  flowing  hair ; 

f  Oh  proud  is  thy  bearing,  and  haughty,  and  high, 

And  thy  brow,  there  is  darkness  and  gloominess  there. 

"  Perchance  thou  hast  heard  from  our  foeman  of  blood ; 

Doth  Swaran  appear  on  the  broad-heaving  sea, 
Doth  he  pour  on  our  coast  like  the  deep  raging  flood  ? 

What  tidings  from  Lochlin,  Duchomar,  for  me  ?" 

**  No  tidings  from  Lochlin,  oh  Morna,  I  bring, 

I  come  from  the  chase  of  the  fleet-footed  deer ; 
My  arrows  have  sped  like  the  eagle's  swift  wing, 

And  the  scatheless  have  fled  from  my  presence  for  fear. 

"  Three  deer  at  my  feet  in  the  death-pang  have  laid, — 

Fair  daughter  of  Cormac,  one  perish'd  for  thee  ; 
As  my  soul  do  I  love  thee,  oh  white-handed  maid  ! 

And  queen  of  my  heart  ever  more  shalt  thou  be  ."* 

15 


ITS  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

ik  Dnchomar  !"  the  maiden  with  firmness  replied, 

u  No  portion  of  love  do  I  cherish  for  thee ; 
For  thy  bosom  is  dark  with  its  passions  and  pride, 

And  fickle  thy  heart  as  the  wide-rolling  sea. 

41  But  Cathba  !  thou  only  shall  Morna  adore, 
Thine  image  alone  this  fond  bosom  shall  fill ; 

Oh  bright  are  thy  locks  as  the  sunbeams  of  day, 
When  the  mists  of  the  valley  are  climbing  the  hill. 

44  Hast  thou  seen  him,  Duchomar,  young  Cathba  the  brave  ? 

Hast  thou  seen  the  fair  chief  on  his  pathway  of  light? 
The  daughter  of  Cormac  the  mighty  is  here 

To  welcome  her  love  when  he  comes  from  the  fight." 

44  Then  long  shalt  thou  tarry,  oh  Morna  !"  he  cried. 

And  fiercely  and  sullenly  gazed  on  the  maid, 
44  Then  long  shalt  thou  tarry,  oh  Morna !  for  here 

Is  the  blood  of  thy  chief  on  Duchomar's  dark  blade. 

44  Cold,  cold  is  thy  hero,  and  slain  by  my  hand, 
His  tomb  will  I  rear  upon  Cromla's  dark  hills ; 

Oh  turn  on  Duchomar  thy  soft-beaming  eye, 

For  his  arm  is  like  lightning,  which  withers  and  kills." 

"Has  he  fallen  in  death,  the  brave  offspring  of  Torman?" 
The  maiden  exclaimed  in  the  accents  of  woe, 

44  The  first  in  the  chase,  and  the  foremost  in  battle, — 
Oh  sad  is  my  bosom,  and  dark  was  the  blow ! 

44  And  dark  is  Duchomar,  and  deadly  his  vengeance, 

He  hath  blasted  each  hope  which  was  bright  in  the  bud ; 

Fell  foe  unto  Morna,  oh  lend  me  thy  weapon, 
For  Cuthba  I  loved,  and  I  still  love  his  blood." 

He  yielded  the  sword  to  her  mourning  and  sighs,  — 
She  plunged  the  red  blade  in  his  fast-heaving  side  j 

And  he  lay  by  the  stream,  as  the  blasted  oak  lies, 
Till  raising  his  hand  he  indignantly  cried, 

44  Daughter  of  blue-shielded  Cormac !  thy  blow 
Hath  cut  off  my  youth  from  the  fame  I  love  best ; 

My  glory  hath  fled  like  a  pale  wreath  of  snow, 
And  Morna !  thy  weapon  is  cold  in  my  breast. 

44  Oh  give  me  to  Moina,  the  maiden  of  beauty, 

Her  dreams  in  the  darkness  are  fraught  with  my  name, 

My  tomb  she  will  raise  in  the  caves  on  the  mountain, 
That  hunters  may  welcome  the  mark  of  my  fame. 

•4  She  will  hang  o'er  my  grave  like  the  mists  of  the  morning, 
And  dwell  on  my  memory  with  fondness  and  pride, — 

But  my  bosom  is  cold,  and  the  lifeblood  is  ebbing, 
Oh  Morna,  draw  forth  the  cold  blade  from  my  side  n 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  179 

Slowly  and  sadly  she  came  at  his  bidding, 

And  drew  forth  the  sword  from  his  fast-bleeding  breast, 

But  he  plunged  the  red  steel  in  her  own  lovely  bosorn, 
And  laid  her  fair  form  on  the  damp  earth  to  rest. 

Her  tresses  dishevell'd  around  her  were  flowing, 

The  blood  gurgling  fast  from  the  wide-gaping  wound, 

And  the  eye  that  was  bright,  and  the  cheek  that  was  glowing, 
In  dimness  and  pallor  and  silence  were  bound. 

Oh  Morna !  be  thou  as  the  moon,  when  its  light 

Shines  forth  from  her  throne  on  the  light  fleecy  cloud, 

To  watch  o'er  the  grave  of  thy  lover  at  night, 

And  wrap  his  cold  tomb  in  thy  silvery  shroud. 
i835. 


TO  THE  MUSE,  AFTER  MY  BROTHER'S  DEATH. 

AH,  where  art  thou  wandering,  sweet  spirit  of  song, 
Who  once  bore  my  rapt  fancy  on  bright  wings  slong  ? 
That  soaring  from  earth,  with  its  cares  and  its  pains, 
It  might  bathe  in  the  light  of  thy  seraph-like  strains  ? 

Ah,  whither  art  fled  in  thy  beauty  and  gladness? 

Why  leave  me  in  silence  thy  loss  to  bewail  ? 
Dost  thou  shrink  from  the  heart  that  is  tinctured  with  sadness, 

The  eye  that  is  dimm'd,  or  the  cheek  that  is  pale  ? 

Since  last  waved  around  me  thy  pinions  of  light, 

The  dullness  of  sorrow  hath  breathed  o'er  my  home, 

For  one  joyful  young  spirit  hath  taken  its  flight, 
One  icy-cold  form  has  been  borne  to  the  tomb, 

Like  a  flow'ret  of  summer,  he  wither'd  and  died 
In  the  springtime  of  beauty,  of  youth,  and  of  pride ; 
In  the  freshness  of  hope  he  was  borne  to  his  tomb, 
And  the  home  of  his  kindred  is  shadow'd  with  gloom. 

Then  return  to  my  bosom,  thou  wakener  of  joy, 

Oh  touch  with  thy  fingers  my  drooping  young  lyre ! 

Awake  it  to  pleasures  time  ne'er  can  destroy, 
And  its  chords  with  a  heavenly  calmness  inspire. 

1836. 


160  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


LINES, 

ON  HEARING  SOME  PASSAGES  READ  FROM  MRS.  HEMANs'g 
"RECORDS  OF  WOMAN." 

OH,  pause"  not  yet,  for  many  an  hour 

I'd  lend  a  raptured  ear, 
The  thrilling,  melting  sweetness 

Of  that  seraph  strain  to  hear. 

Dispel  not  yet  the  soften'd  joy 

Those  gentle  tones  impart, 
While  painting  in  such  vivid  hues, 

The  worth  of  woman's  heart. 

Priestess  of  song  !  could  we  but  feel 

The  value  of  thine  own, 
How  many  a  soul  would  bow  before 

Thy  spirit's  lofty  throne. 

How  many  now  elated 

With  the  muse's  faintest  smile, 

Would  turn  them  to  thy  radiant  shrine, 
And  worship  there  awhile. 

With  softest  touch  thy  magic  hand 

Awaked  the  sleeping  lyre, 
To  all  a  woman's  tenderness, 

And  all  a  poet's  fire. 

And  proudly  soar'd  thy  lofty  mind 

Each  earthly  thought  above, 
And  vainly  sought  thy  woman's  heart 

For  something  more  to  love. 
1836.  [Unfinished.] 


AN  APPEAL  FOR  THE  BLIND. 

THOUGH  thousands  pass  the  mourners  by, 
And  scorn  the  suppliant's  bended  knee, 

**  Hope  springs  exulting"  to  the  eye, 
When  sorrow  turns  its  glance  on  thee. 

For  soft  compassion's  slumbering  ray, 
And  pity's  melting  glance  is  there, 

To  chase  the  sufferer's  fears  away, 

And  soothe  to  calmness  wild  despair. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  181 

Oh  fan  to  life  the  kindling  spark, 

Till  brightly  burns  its  radiant  flame, 
For  thou  art  fortune's  favour'd  child, 

And  I  would  plead  in  mercy's  name. 

Scan  the  dark  page  of  life,  and  say 

If  there  thy  searching  eye  can  find 
A  woe  more  keen,  a  fate  more  sad, 

Than  that  which  marks  the  helpless  blind. 

Launch'd  forth  on  life's  uncertain  path, 

Its  best  and  brightest  gift  denied, 
No  power  to  pluck  its  fragrant  flowers, 

Or  turn  its  poisonous  thorns  aside ; 

No  ray  to  pierce  the  gloom  within, 

And  chase  the  darkness  with  its  light ; 
No  radiant  morning  dawn  to  win 

His  spirit  from  the  shades  of  night. 

Nature,  whose  smile,  so  pure  and  fair, 

Casts  a  bright  glow  o'er  life's  dark  stream, 

Nature,  sweet  soother  of  our  care, 
Hat*  not  a  single  smile  for  him. 

When  pale  disease,  with  blighting  hand, 

Crushes  each  budding  hope  awhile, 
Our  eyes  can  rest  in  sweet  delight 

On  love's  fond  gaze,  or  friendship's  smile. 

Not  so  with  him— his  soul,  chain'd  down 

By  doubt,  and  loneliness,  and  care, 
Feels  but  misfortune's  chilling  frown, 

And  broods  in  darkness  and  despair. 

Favour'd  by  heaven !  oh  haste  thee  on,— 

Thy  blest  Redeemer  points  the  way, — 
Haste  o'er  the  spirit's  gloom  to  pour 

The  light  of  intellectual  day. 

Thou  canst  not  raise  their  drooping  lids, 

And  wake  them  to  the  noonday  sun ; 
Thou  canst  not  ope  what  God  hath  closed, 

Or  cancel  aught  His  hands  have  done. 

But  oh  !  there  is  a  world  within, 

More  bright,  more  beautiful  than  ours ; 
A  world  which,  nursed  by  culturing  hands, 

Will  blush  with  fairest,  sweetest  flowers. 

And  thou  canst  make  that  desert  mind 
Bloom  sweetly  as  the  blushing  rose ; 
15* 


132  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Thou  canst  illume  that  rayless  void, 
Till  darkness  like  the  day-beam  glows. 

Thou  canst  implant  the  brilliant  gem 
Of  thought,  in  each  benighted  soul, 

Till  back  from  radiance  so  divine 
The  clouds  of  ignorance  shall  roll. 

Thus  shalt  thou  shed  a  purer  ray 
O'er  each  beclouded  mind  within, 

Than  pours  tne  glorious  orb  of  day 
On  this  dark  world  of  care  and  sin. 

Prize  you  a  self-approving  mind? 

Then  lay  thine  offering  here; 
The  clouded  orbits  of  the  blind 

Shall  yield  a  grateful  tear. 

Would'st  thou  the  blessings  of  that  band 
Should  crowd  thy  path  below  ? 

That  hearts,  enlighten'd  by  thy  hand, 
With  gratitude  should  flow? 

And  would'st  thou  seek  the  matchless  lov* 
To  God's  own  children  given, 

A  conscience  calmly  resting  'neath 
The  fav'ring  smiles  of  Heaven? 

Then  speed  thee  on  in  mercy's  cause, 
And  teach  the  blind  to  see; 

"  Hope  springs  exulting"  in  the  eye 
That  sorrowing  turns  to  thee. 

And  warmest  blessings  on  thy  head, 
Full  many  a  voice  shall  call ; 

And  tears  upon  thy  memory  shed, 
Like  Hermon's  dew  shall  fall ! 

And  when  the  last  dread  day  has  come, 
Which  seals  thy  endless  doom  ; 

When  the  freed  soul  shall  seek  its  home, 
And  triumph  o'er  the  tomb; 

When  lowly  bends  each  reverend  knee, 
And  bows  each  heart  in  prayer, 

A  band  of  spirits,  saved  by  thee, 

Shall  plead  thy  virtues  there ! 
1836. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 


THE   SMILES  OF  NATURE. 

THERE  's  a  smile  above,  and  a  smile  below, 

In  the  clouds  that  roll,  and  the  waves  that  flow : 

Is  the  heart  unchain'd  by  sorrow's  thrall, 

There  's  a  smile  of  joy  and  of  peace  in  all! 

There  's  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  the  waken'd  day, 

When  he  gilds  the  east  with  his  glowing  ray, 

And  a  smile  on  his  brow  when  he  sinks  to  rest, 

Like  the  saint  who  expires  on  his  Maker's  breast. 

There  are  pensive  smiles  on  the  evening  sky, 

Which  raise  the  thoughts  to  the  pure  and  high, 

Which  speak  to  the  soul  of  its  glad  release, 

And  tune  its  quivering  chords  to  "peace. 

The  flow'rets  ope  with  the  rising  sun, 

And  wither  and  die  ere  his  race  is  run; 

Yet  a  smile  is  shed  o'er  their  transient  bloom, 

Adorning  the  path  to  their  early  tomb. 

There 's  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  the  gorgeous  spring, 

When  she  spreads  o'er  the  valley  her  radiant  wing ; 

As  she  calms  the  wild  winds  with  her  fragrant  breath, 

And  decks  the  glad  earth  in  her  beautiful  wreath. 

There  's  a  smile  on  the  rose,  though  't  will  cease  to  bloom  ; 

There  's  a  smile  on  the  stream,  though  the  storm  may  corne ; 

There  's  a  smile  in  the  sky,  though  the  clouds  may  roll 

Like  sin  o'er  the  depths  of  the  human  soul  I 

Thus,  all   that  is  lovely  is  form'd  for  decay, 

But  the  pure  beams  of  heaven  are  shed  o'er  the  way. 

There  are  varied  smiles  on  a  mortal's  brow, 

Which  speak  of  the  soul  from  its  depths  below ; 

But  they  too  vanish,  when  brightest  they  beam, 

And  bury  their  light  in  the  workPs  dark  stream. 

For  the  heart  of  man  is  the  throne  of  guile, 

And  sin  can  shadow  each  mortal  smile ; 

And  the  blossoms  of  light  which  are  planted  there, 

Are  weaken'd  by  passion,  or  wither'd  by  care. 

There  's  a  haughty  smile  on  the  conqueror's  brow, 

As  the  nations  of  earth  at  his  footstool  bow ; 

But  that  smile  is  chill  as  the  frozen  stream 

Which  glitters  pale  in  the  moon's  cold  beam, 

It  speaks  of  ambition,  of  pride,  and  of  sin, 

Which  rankle  and  swell  the  dark  bosom  within. 

There's  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  aspiring  man, 

As  he  pauses  the  works  of  his  hand  to  scan, 

And  gazes  far  up  to  that  gorgeous  height 

Which  is  guarded  by  danger,  and  terror,  and  night 

But 't  is  cold  as  the  bosom  from  whence  it  came, 

And  is  lost  in  the  splendours  of  grandeur  and  fame. 

There  's  a  beaming  smile  upon  beauty's  brow, 

As  the  young  and  the  gay  at  her  altar  bow ; 

'T  is  brilliant,  't  is  dazzling,  't  is   passing  fair, 

But  the  heart  in  its  freshness  is  wanting  there. 


184  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

There  's  a  sunny  smile  on  the  infant's  lip, 

As  he  pauses  the  cup  of  enjoyment  to  sip ; 

But  a  moment  more  shall  have  hurried  by, 

And  that  smile  will  fade  from  his  clouded  eye ; 

Some  childish  sorrow,  or  childish  sin, 

Shall  cast  its  shade  o'er  the  depths  within. 

Then  where  shall  we  seek  for  a  perfect  smile, 

If  beauty  hath  sorrotv,  and  youth  hath  guile? 

If  the  clouds  of  pride  and  ambition  roll 

O'er  the  inmost  depths  of  the  deathless  soul  ? 

Oh  Nature!  the  soul  is  a  spark  divine, 

But  I  turn  from  its  light  for  a  smile  of  thine ; 

The  soul  in  its  greatness  must  ever  endure, 

But  thou,  in  thy  freshness^  art  holy  and  pure ! 

Oh,  give  me  the  beams  of  the  summer  sky, 

Which  gladden  the  bosom  and  rapture  the  eye ; 

Though  transient  the  radiance,  though  fleeting  the  smile, 

They  speak  not  of  sorrow,  they  breathe  not  of  guile ! 

But  light  up  the  tremulous  chords  of  the  soul, 

Its  virtues  to  heighten,  its  sins  to  control : 

For  the  soft  smiles  of  nature  around  us  are  cast, 

To  light,  with  their  brilliance,  the  world's  weary  waste. 

To  call  the  lone  heart  from  its  sadness  away, 

And  shed  o'er  its  darkness  a  magical  ray ! 

When  oppress'd  with  the  cares  and  sorrows  of  life, 

The  spirit  turns  back  from  its  turmoil  and  strife, 

When  it  longs  to  be  happy,  and  sighs  to  be  free, 

Oh  nature,  'tis  cheer'd  by  communion  with  thee. 

Though  the  waters  may  rise,  and  the  sky  be  o'ercast ; 

Though  rages  the  tempest,  and  whistles  the  blast ; 

Though  thy  brow  may  be  shaded  in  darkness  and  fear, 

He  can  read  there  a  lesson  to  solace  and  cheer, 

As  the  soft  rays  of  sunshine  succeed  t,o  thy  frown ; 

As  the  rainbow  encircles  thy  brows  like  a  crown ; 

As  the  tempest  rolls  off  which  had  reigned  there  awhile. 

And  bursts  forth  in  radiance  the  light  of  thy  smile, 

So  gently  the  shadows  of  sorrow  depart, 

And  hope  dawns  again  on  the  desolate  heart, 

And  points  from  thy  glories  to  glories  more  pure 

From  thy  fast-fading  beauties  to  charms  which  endure, 

And  leads  the  rapt  soul  from  its  sinful  abode, 

To  commune  for  awhile  with  its  Maker  and  God. 

Oh  Nature  !  what  art  thou  ? — a  mighty  lyre, 

Whose  wings  are  swept  by  an  angel  choir ; 

Whose  music,  attuned  by  a  hand  divine, 

Thrills  a  chord  in  each  bosom  responsive  to  thine, 

And  whose  gentle  strain,  as  it  softly  swells, 

Soothes  many  a  bosom  where  sadness  dwells ; 

While  the  joyous  and  happy,  the  youthful  and  gay, 

Pluck  the  flowers  from  thy  garland  and  speed  on  their  way. 

Oh,  give  me  the  beams  of  the  summer  sky, 

Which  gladden  the  bosom,  and  rapture  the  eyf, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  185 

Though  fleeting  the  radiance,  though  transient  the  smile, 
They  speak  not  of  sorrow,  they  breathe  not  of  guile, 
But  light  up  the  tremulous  chords  of  the  soul, 
Its  virtues  to  heighten,  its  sins  to  control. 
1835. 


ON  A  ROSE, 

RECEIVED  FROM  MISS  SEDGWICK. 

AND  thou  art  fading  too,  my  rose, 

Thy  healthful  bloom  is  fled, 
From  thy  pale  flower  the  leaves  unclose, 

And  bows  thy  pallid  head. 

I  knew  how  quickly  fades  away 

Each  brighter,  lovelier  thing, 
And  did  not  deem  that  thou  couldst  stay, 

Thou  fairest  rose  of  spring. 

But  I  have  watch'd  thy  varying  hue, 

As  fading  hour  by  hour, 
And  mourn'd  that  thou  must  perish  too, 

My  lovely,  cherish'd  flower. 

Oh,  'tis  a  mournful  thing  to  see 
How  all  that's  fair  must  die ; 

How  death  will  pluck  the  sweetest  bud, 
On  his  cold  breast  to  lie. 

'Tis  sad  to  mark  his  icy  hand 

Destroy  our  all  that's  dear, 
In  silent,  shivering  awe  to  stand, 

And  know  his  footstep  near. 

Yet  'twere  unmeet  that  thou  shouldst  live, 
When  man  himself  must  die ; 

That  death  should  cull  each  human  form, 
And  pass  the  flow'ret  by. 

Why  do  I  mourn  for  thee  my  rose, 

When  graven  in  my  heart, 
I  read  a  deeper  sorrow  there 

Than  thou  could'st  e'er  impart. 

For  one  who  came  from  heaven  awhile 

To  bless  the  mourners  here ; 
Their  joys  to  hallow  with  her  smile, 

Their  sorrows  with  her  tear ; 


186  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Who  join'd  to  all  the  charms  of  earth 
The  noblest  gifts  of  heaven  ; 

To  whom  the  Muses,  at  her  birth, 
Their  sweetest  smiles  had  given ; 

Whose  eye  beam'd  forth  with  fancy's  ray, 
And  genius  pure  and  high  ; 

Whose  very  soul  had  seem'd  to  bathe 
In  streams  of  melody, — 

Was  all  too  like  to  thee,  my  rose, 

As  fragile  and  as  fair ; 
For,  while  her  eye  most  brightly  beam'd, 

The  mark  of  death  was  there. 

The  cheek  which  once  so  sweetly  bloom'd, 

Grew  pallid  with  decay ; 
The  burning  fire  within  consumed 

Its  tenement  of  clay. 

Death,  as  if  fearing  to  destroy, 
Paused  o'er  her  couch  awhile; 

She  gave  a  tear  for  those  she  loved, 
Then  met  him  with  a  smile. 

Oh,  who  may  tell  what  angel  bands 
Convey'd  that  soul  away ; 

And  who  may  tell  what  tears  were  shed 
Above  that  lifeless  clay. 

They  laid  her  in  the  silent  grave, 
The  moist  earth  for  her  bed  ! 

And  placed  the  rose  and  violet 
To  blossom  o'er  her  head! 

But  though  unseen  by  mortal  eye, 
She  seem'd  not  to  depart, 

Her  memory  linger'd  still  below 
In  every  kindred  heart; 

As  if  her  pure  unfetter'd  soul 
Return'd  to  earthly  things, 

And  spread  o'er  all  her  cherish'd  scenes 
The  shadow  of  her  wings. 

Still  thou  art  like  to  her,  my  rose, 
Though  bending  in  decay  ; 

The  tyrant  death  can  never  take 
Thy  fragrant  breath  away. 

Like  thee,  my  rose,  she  bloom'd  and  died, 
Like  thee,  her  life  was  brief; 

And  to  her  name  remembrance  clung, 
Like  perfume  to  thy  leaf. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  187 

But  when  the  torch  of  memory  burn'd 

With  fainter,  feebler  flame, 
The  pen  of  Sedgwick  spread  anew 

A  lustre  round  her  name. 

For  this  our  daily  gratitude 

In  raptures  shall  ascend; 
For  this  a  sister's  blessings 

And  a  mother's  prayer  shall  blend. 

And  if  the  Lord  of  heaven  permits 

His  sainted  ones  to  know 
The  varied  scenes  of  joy  and  grief 

Which  mark  the  world  below; 

Then  she  will  bend  her  angel  form, 

With  heavenly  raptures  fired, 
And  bless  the  hand  which  penn'd  the  tale, 

The  genius  which  inspired. 

1837. 


THE  CHURCH-GOING  BELL. 

How  sweet  is  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 
When  it  bursts  on  the  ear  with  its  full  rich  swell, 
So  slow  and  so  solemn  it  peals  through  the  air, 
It  seems  as  if  calling  the  soul  to  prepare 
To  meet  in  his  temple,  so  holy  and  pure, 
The  Saviour,  whose  presence  shall  ever  endure; 
To  unburthen  the  conscience— devoutly  to  kneel — 
To  pray  for  the  pardon  of  sins  which  we  feel ; 
Before  our  almighty  Preserver  to  bow, 
With  a  purified  soul,  and  a  heart  humbled  low. 
1837.  [Unfinished.] 


FRAGMENT. 

OH,  for  a  something  more  than  this, 
To  fill  the  void  within  my  breast ; 

A  sweet  reality  of  bliss, 

A  something  bright,  but  unexpress  d '. 

My  spirit  longs  for  something  higher 
Than  life's  dull  stream  can  e'er  supply  ; 

Something  to  feed  this  inward  fire, 

This  spark,  which  never  more  can  die. 


188  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON 

I  'd  dwell  with  all  that  nature  forms 

Of  wild  or  beautiful  or  gay, 
Bow,  when  she  clothes  the  heaven  with  storms, 

And  join  her  in  her  frolic  play. 

I'd  hold  companionship  with  all 

Of  pure,  of  noble,  or  divine  ; 
With  glowing  heart  adoring  fall,  • 

And  kneel  at  nature's  sylvan  shrine. 

My  soul  is  like  a  broken  lyre, 

Whose  loudest,  sweetest  chord  is  gone ; 

A  note,  half  trembling  on  the  wire, 
A  heart  that  wants  an  echoing  tone. 

Where  shall  I  find  this  shadowy  bliss, 
This  shapeless  phantom  of  the  mind  ? 

This  something  words  can  ne'er  express. 
So  vague,  so  faint,  so  undefined  ? 


anguage  .  thou  never  canst  portray 
The  fancies  floating  o'er  my  soul ! 
Thou  ne'er  canst  chase  the  clouds  away 
Which  o'er  my  changing  visions  roll ! 


Lan 

Th 
^ 

1837. 


FRAGMENT. 

On,  I  have  gazed  on  forms  of  light, 
Till  life  seem'd  ebbing  in  a  tear — 

Till  in  that  fleeting  space  of  sight 
Were  merged  the  feelings  of  a  year. 

And  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  song, 
Till  my  full  heart  gush'd  wild  and  free, 

And  my  rapt  soul  would  float  along 
As  if  on  waves  of  melody 

But  while  I  glow'd  at  beauty's  glance, 

I  long'd  to  feel  a  deeper  thrill : 
And  while  I  heard  that  dying  strain, 

I  sigh'd  for  something  sweeter  still. 

I  have  been  happy,  and  my  soul 

Free  from  each  sorrow,  care,  regret; 

Yet  ever  in  those  hours  of  bliss 
I  long'd  to  find  them  happier  yet. 

Oft  o'er  the  darkness  of  my  mind 

Some  meteor  thought  has  glanced  at  will; 

'T  was  bright — but  ever  have  I  sigh'd 
To  find  a  fancy  brighter  still. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  189 

Why  are  these  restless,  vain  desires, 

Which  always  grasp  at  something  more       , 

To  feed  the  spirit's  hidden  fires, 
Which  burn  unseen,  unnoticed  soar  ? 

Well  might  the  heathen  sage  have  k 

That  earth  must  fail  the  soul  to  bi 

That  life,  arid  life's  tame  joys,  alone 

Could  never  chain  the  ethereal  m' 

1837. 


WRITTEN  WHEN  BETWEEN  FOURTEEN  AND  FIFTE 

ON  RETURNING  TO  BALLSTON, 

AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LITTLE  BROTHER. 

YES  !  this  is  home  !  the  home  we  loved  before, 
The  dear  retreat  we  hope  to  leave  no  more  ! 
Since  first  we  mourn'd  thy  calm  enjoyments  fled, 
Two  weary  years  with  silent  steps  have  sped ; 
And  ah  !   in  that  short  space  whafcscenes  have  past ! 
Death  has  been  with  us  since  we  saw  thee  last  1 
Yes  !  robed  in  gloom  he  came,  the  tyrant  Death, 
To  blight  our  fairest  with  his  chilling  breath. 
He  stole  along  beneath  the  smiles  of  spring, 
When  youthful  hearts  to  life  most  fondly  cling  ; 
The  loveliest  flowers  were  blushing  'neath  his  tread  ; 
He  stole  the  sweetest  of  them  all,  and  fled  ! 
In  vain,  my  brother,  now  we  look  for  thee, 
Thy  form  elastic,  and  thy  step  of  glee ; 
In  vain  we  strove  our  thoughts  from  thee  to  win, 
Our  hearts  recoiling  feel  the  void  within. 
Alas  !  alas  !  thou  dear  and  cherish'd  one, 
How  soon  on  earth  thy  tranquil  course  was  run  ! 
Like  some  bright  stream  that  pours  its  waves  to-day, 
Glides  gently  on,  and  vanishes  away  ! 
A  brief,  brief  time  has  pass'd  with  giant  stride, 
And  thou  hast  lived,  hast  suffer'd,  and  hast  died  ! 
Memory,  unmindful  of  the  lapse  between, 
Paints  forth  in  vivid  hues  that  closing  scene ; 
The  more  we  gaze,  we  feel  its  truth  the  more, 
And  live  in  thought  those  painful  moments  o'er. 
We  see  his  form  upon  its  couch  of  pain, 
We  hear  his  soft  and  trembling  voice  again ; 
Grief  forcing  from  our  lips  the  shuddering  groan, 
And  sweet  composure  breathing  from  his  own. 
The  earth  was  clothed  in  spring's  enlivening  hue, 
The  faded  buds  were  bursting  forth  anew, 
The  birds  were  heard  in  sweet,  melodious  strain, 
And  Nature  woke  to  radiant  life  again, 
16 


190  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

While  he,  too  fragile  for  this  world  of  strife, 

Prepared  to  blossom  in  a  holier  life, 

The  glowing  spring  of  heaven's  eternal  year 

Was  usher'd  in  by  all  that 's  loveliest  here ; 

Earth,  robed  in  Nature's  fairest,  best  array, 

Led  on  his  fluttering  soul  to  purer  day. 

The  soft  winds  fann'd  him  where  his  couch  was  laid, 

On  his  hot  brow  the  cooling  breezes  play'd, 

And  in  his  hand  (fit  type  of  early  death,) 

Was  clasp'd  a  faded  flower,  a  wither'd  wreath. 

Hush'd  was  each  bursting  groan,  each  tumult  wild, 

Around  the  death-bed  of  that  darling  child  ; 

O'er  each  sad  heart  an  awful  trembling  crept; 

E'en  grief,  o'erpower'd,  a  solemn  stillness  kept. 

His  soul,  beyond  the  grasp  of  care  and  strife, 

Stood  on  the  confines  of  a  deathless  life ; 

His  gaze  was  fix'd  upon        *         *         * 

The  lapse  between  eternity  and  time  ; 

His  eye  was  beaming  with  intenser  light, 

As  broke  new  glories  on  his  fading  sight. 

Oh,  who  may  tell  that  hour  of  thrilling  dread, 

That  midnight  vigil  by  his  dying  bed! 

When  his  young  spirit  left  its  shrine  of  clay, 

And  sped  through  worlds  unknown  its  pathless  way ! 

Methinks  e'en  now  I  see  his  speaking  face, 

Death  on  his  brow,  and  in  his  bosom  peace, 

When  soft  he  whisper'd,  while  the  accents  fell 

Like  the  soft  murmurings  of  the  passing  gale, 

While  his  cheek  glow'd  with  death's  intensest  bloom, 

"  Mother !  dear  mother  !  the  last  hour  has  come  !" 

Yes !  thy  last  hour  of  pain,  thou  darling  boy, 

The  opening  scene  to  endless  years  of  joy  ! 

Oh,  never  more,  till  memory's  sun  shall  set, 

Can  I  that  thrilling  scene  of  death  forget ! 

His  earnest  gaze,  his  bright  and  glowing  cheek 

Beaming  with  thoughts  his  tongue  no  more  could  speak, 

His  soul  just  hastening  to  the  realms  on  high, 

While  all  earth's  love  was  kindling  in  his  eye. 

Alas  !  it  fades,  that  deep,  unearthly  glow, 

And  the  cold  drops  stand  quivering  on  his  brow 

Death  has  o'ercome  !  't  is  nature's  closing  strife, 

The  last,  last  struggle  of  departing  life  ! 

List  to  that  sigh  !  the  poison'd  shaft  has  sped, 

And  his  young  spirit  to  its  home  hath  fled. 

The  silver  chord  is  broke,  dissolved  the  tie ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  how  all  that 's  fair  must  die ! 

Hark  to  that  heavenly  strain,  so  loud,  so  clear, 

Rising  so  sweet  on  fancy's  listening  ear ! 

Hark  !  't  is  an  angel's  song,  a  voice  of  glee, 

A  welcome  to  the  soul,  unchain'd  and  free  ! 

On,  on  it  flows  in  ceaseless  tides  again,  • 

Till  the  rapt  spirit  echoes  to  the  strain, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  191 


Till  on  the  wings  of  song  it  soars  away, 
To  track  its  kindred  soul  through  realms  of  day  ! 
Hark  to  that  lyre,  more  sweet  than  all  beside ; 
Mother  I  't  is  hers !  oh,  weep  not  that  she  died ! 
Hark  to  that  voice,  so  melting  and  so  clear, 
The  same,  my  father,  thou  wert  wont  to  hear ! 
And  mark  that  train  of  infant  spirits  come 
To  lead  their  brother  to  his  glorious  home ! 
All,  all  are  yours !  and  all  shall  gather  there, 
To  lead  your  spirits  from  this  world  of  care ; 
Then  weep  no  more ;  your  darling  son  is  blest, 
And  his  young  soul  has  enter'd  into  rest. 
1837. 


TWILIGHT. 

TWILIGHT  !  sweet  hour  of  peace, 

Now  art  thou  stealing  on  ; 

Cease  from  thy  tumult,  thought !  and  fancy,  cease  ! 
Day  and  its  cares  have  gone! 
Mysterious  hour, 
Thy  magic  power 
Steals  o'er  my  heart  like  music's  softest  tone. 

The  golden  sunset  hues 

Are  fading  in  the  west; 

The  gorgeous  clouds  their  brighter  radiance  lose, 
Folded  on  evening's  breast. 

So  doth  each  wayward  thought, 
From  fancy's  altar  caught, 
Fade  like  thy  tints,  and  muse  itself  to  rest. 

Cold  must  that  bosom  be, 

Which  never  felt  thy  power, 
Which  never  thrill'd  with  tender  melody 
At  this  bewitching  hour ; 
When  nature's  gentle  art 
Enchains  the  pensive  heart; 
When  the  breeze  sinks  to  rest,  and  shuts  the  fragrant  flower; 

It  is  the  hour  for  pensive  thought, 

For  memory  of  the  past, 
For  sadden'd  joy,  for  chasten'd  hope 
Of  brighter  scenes  at  last ; 
The  soul  should  raise 
Its  hymn  of  praise, 
That  calm  so  sweet  on  life's  dull  stream  is  cast 

Wearied  with  care,  how  sweet  to  hail 

Thy  shadowy,  calm  repose, 
When  all  is  silent  but  the  whispering  gale 
Which  greets  the  sleeping  rose ; 
When,  as  thy  shadows  blend, 
The  trembling  thoughts  ascend, 
And  borre  aloft,  the  gates  of  heaven  unclose. 


192  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Forth  from  the  warm  recess 
The  chain'd  affections  flow, 
And  peace,  and  love,  and  tranquil  happiness 
Their  mingled  joys  bestow ; 
Charmed  by  the  mystic  spell, 
The  purer  feelings  swell, 
The  nobler  powers  revive,  expand,  and  glow. 
1837. 


ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  A  BROTHER 

BROTHER  !  I  need  no  pencill'd  form 

To  bring  back  glowing  thoughts  of  thee ; 

Love's  pencil,  bathed  in  hues  of  light, 
Shall  trace  the  page  of  memory. 

There  they  shall  live,  each  look  or  smile, 
Each  gentler  word,  or  look,  or  tone ; 

Fancy  shall  view  love's  work  the  while, 
And  add  rich  colouring  of  her  own. 

How  throbb'd  my  heart  with  sweet  delight, 
When  hope  beheld  thy  near  return ! 

Nor  thought  that  day  precedes  the  night, 
And  hearts  the  happiest  soonest  mourn. 

Why  knew  I  not  that  joy  like  mine 
Was  never,  never  formed  to  last? 

That  pleasures  only  live  to  die, 

And,  ere  we  feel  them,  ours  are  past  ? 

Oh !  turn  not  from  my  strain  away, 
Nor  scorn  it,  simple  though  it  be  ! 

It  is  a  sister's  sorrowing  lay, 
A  token  of  her  love  for  thee. 

Oh !  that  a  prophet's  eye  were  mine, 
To  read  the  shrouded  future  o'er ! 

Oh  !  that  the  glimmering  lamp  of  time 
Could  cast  its  mystic  rays  before ! 

Then  would  I  trace  thy  devious  way 
Along  the  chequer'd  path  of  life ; 

Discern  each  pure,  reviving  ray, 

And  mark  each  changing  scene  of  strife. 

Oh!  if  a  sister's  partial  hand 

Could  weave  the  web  of  fate  for  thee, 

Pleasure  should  wave  her  mystic  wand, 
And  all  thy  life  be  harmony. 

Peace,  foolish   heart!   a  wiser  Power 
Thy  hand  shall  guide,  thy  footsteps  lead ; 

Each  bitter  grief,  each  rapturous  hour 
By  His  unerring  will  decreed. 


POETICAL   REMAIN?.  193 

Farewell,  my  brother !  and  believe, 

Through  every  scene  of  weal  or  woe, 
A  sister's  heart  with  thine  shall  grieve, 

With  thine  in  rapturous  joy  shall  glow. 

Each  morn  and  eve  a  mother's  prayer 

With  mine  shall  seek  the  courts  above : 
A  mother's  blessing  rest  on  thee, 

Embalm'd  in  all  a  mother's  love. 
1837. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AFTER  READING  ACCOUNTS  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  MARTYRS, 

SPEAK  not  of  life,  I  could  not  bear 
A  life  of  foul  disgrace  to  share ! 
Wealth,  fame,  or  honour's  fleeting  breath, 
What  are  they  to  this  glorious  death  1 
Think  ye  a  kingdom  back  could  win 
My  spirit  to  this  world  of  sin ! 
Think  ye  a  few  more  years  of  strife 
Could  draw  rne  from  eternal  life  1 — 
Dark  is  the  path  to  Canaan's  shore, 
But  Jesus  trod  the  path  before ! 
He  hath  illumed  the  grave  for  me, — 
My  Saviour  !  I  will  die  for  thee  ! 
Yes !  lead  me  forth ;  in  faith  secure, 
The  keenest  anguish  I'll  endure! 
And  while  my  body  feeds  the  flame, 
My  soul  its  bright  reward  shall  claim  ! 
Soon  shall  these  earthly  bonds  decay, 
This  trembling  frame  return  to  clay, 
And  earth,  enrobed  in  clouds  of  night, 
Shall  fade  for  ever  from  my  sight. 
But  who  would  mourn  a  home  like  this, 
When  gather'd  to  that  home  of  bliss  1 
But  there  is  many  a  tender  tie 
Would  shake  my  firm  resolve  to  die  ; 
Cords  which  entwine  my  longing  heart 
Affection's  death  alone  can  part. 
Jesus,  forgive  each  faltering  thought, 
Which  weaker,  earlier  love  hath  taught ; 
Forgive  the  tears  which  struggling  flow 
To  view  a  mother's,  sister's  woe. 
Forgive  this  grief,  though  weak  it  be, 
Nor  deem  my  spirit  turn'd  from  thee  ! 
Raise  my  unworthy  soul  above 
The  tempting  wiles  of  earthly  love  ! 
Soon  shall  each  torturing  pang  be  o'er, 
And  tears  like  these  shall  flow  no  more ; 
16* 


194  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  those  I  love  so  deeply  here 
Shall  meet  rne  in  yon  heavenly  sphere. 
Love  !  what  have  I,  compared  to  thine  ! 
Love,  pure,  ineffable,  divine  ! 
Love  which  could  bring  a  God  below 
To  taste  a  mortal's  cup  of  woe ; 
To  weep  in  agony,  to  sigh, 
To  bear  a  nation's  scorn — to  die  ! 
Oh,  love  !  undying,  godlike,  free, 
All  else  is  swallow'd  up  in  thee. 
Soon  shall  I  also  soar  above, 
To  dwell  with  thee,  for  "  God  is  /owe." 
Yes  !   pile  the  blazing  fagots  high, 
Till  the  bright  flames  salute  the  sky ! 
From  each  devouring  pile  you  raise, 
Shall  soar  a  hymn  of  love  and  praise, 
And  the  firm  stake  you  rear  for  me, 
The  gate  to  endless  life  shall  be. 
But  oh,  ye  frail,  deluded  train, 
How  will  ye  meet  your  Lord  again  ! 
"  Father !  their  crimes  in  mercy  view  ! 
Forgive,  they  know  not  what  they  do !" 
1837. 


ON  READING  COWPER'S  POEMS. 

CHARM'D  with  thy  verse,  oh  bard,  I  fain  would  raise 
A  feeble  tribute  teeming  with  thy  praise; 
For  thee,  oh  Cowper,  touch  the  trembling  string, 
And  breathe  the  thoughts  the  muse  inspires  to  sing ; 
For  thee,  whose  soul  delighted  oft  to  roam 
O'er  the  pure  realms  of  thine  eternal  home ; 
Who,  scorning  folly's  srnile,  or  fancy's  dream, 
Made  truth  thy  guide  and  piety  thy  theme ; 
Who  loved  to  soar  where  heaven's  own  glories  shine, 
And  tuned  the  lyre  to  harmonies  divine ! 
Whose  strains,  when  pour'd  by  faith's  directing  voice, 
Made  doubt  recede,  and  certainty  rejoice; 
Whose  lofty  verse,  by  sterner  justice  led, 
Made  unbelievers,  trembling,  shrink  with  dread. 
Oh  that  each  bard,  from  earthborn  passions  free, 
Might  tread  the  path  thus  nobly  mark'd  by  thee, 
And  teaching  song  to  plead  in  virtue's  cause, 
Might  win,  like  thee,  a  grateful  world's  applause  ! 
Knowing  from  whence  thy  matchless  talents  came, 
Thou  fanned'st  to  purer  life  the  kindling  flame, 
And  breathing  all  thy  thoughts  in  numbers  sweet, 
Laid  them  adoring  at  thy  Maker's  feet. 
Thus  leaching  man  that  all  his  nobler  lays 
Should  rise  o'erflowing  with  that  Maker's  praise , 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  195 

That  his  enraptured  muse  should  firmly  own 
The  claims  of  truth,  and  faith,  and  love  alone ! 
That  he,  who  feels  within  the  fire  divine, 
Should  nurse  the  flame  to  grace  God's  holy  shrine. 
Let  those  who  bask  in  passion's  burning  ray, 
Who  own  no  rule  but  fancy's  changeful  sway, 
Who  quench  their  burning  thirst  in  folly's  stream, 
And  waste  their  genius  on  each  grosser  theme, 
Let  them  turn  back  on  life's  tumultuous  sea, 
And  humbly  gazing,  learn  this  truth  from  thee; 
That  virtue's  hand  the  poet's  lamp  must  trim, 
And  its  clear  light,  unwavering,  point  to  Him, 
Or  all  its  brilliance  shall  have  glow'd  in  vain, 
And  hours  misspent  shall  win  him  years  of  pain. 
1837. 


STANZAS. 

OH,  who  may  tell  the  joy,  the  bliss, 

Which  o'er  the  realm  of  fancy  streams; 

The  varied  streams  of  light  and  life, 

Which  deck  the  poet's  world  of  dreams  ? 

The  ransom'd  soul  may  speed  its  flight, 
To  live  and  grow  in  realms  above ; 

May  bathe  in  floods  of  endless  light, 
And  live  eternal  years  of  love. 

But  oh,  what  voice  hath  e'er  reveal'd 
The  glories  of  that  blest  abode, 

Save  the  faint  whisperings  of  the  soul, 
The  mystic  monitors  of  God  ? 

Thus  may  the  poet's  spirit  dance 
And  revel  in  his  world  of  joy, 

May  form  creations  at  a  glance, 
And  myriads  at  a  word  destroy. 

But  mortal  ear  can  never  hear 
The  music  of  that  seraph  band  ; 

Nought  save  the  faint,  unearthly  tones 
Just  wafted  from  that  spirit-land. 

None  but  the  poet's  soul  can  know 
The  wild  and  wondrous  beauty  there ; 

The  streams  of  light,  which  ever  flow, 
The  ever  music- breathing  air. 

His  spirit  seeks  this  heaven  awhile, 
Entranced  in  glowing  dreams  of  bliss 

Lives  in  the  muses'  hallow'd  smile, 
And  bathes  in  founts  of  happiness, 


196  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Then,  when  he  sinks  to  earth  again, 
His  hand  awakes  the  trembling  lyre, 

He  strives  to  breathe  a  burning  strain, 
Kindled  at  fancy's  altar-fire. 

But  oh,  how  frail  the  trembling  notes, 
Compared  *  *  * 

*  #  #  # 

1837. 


FRAGMENT. 

'  TWAS  the  song  of  the  evening  spirit !  it  stole, 
Like  a  stream  of  delight,  o'er  the  listening  soul, 
And  the  passions  of  earth — joy,  or  sorrow,  or  pain — 
Were  absorb'd  in  the  notes  of  that  heavenly  strain. 
My  heart  seem'd  to  pause  as  the  spirit  came  nigh, 
And,  array'd  in  its  garment  of  music  pass'd  by  ! 
"  I  am  coming,  oh  earth !  I  am  hasting  away, 
With  my  star-spangled  crown  and  my  mantle  of  gray ; 
I  have  come  from  my  bower  in  the  regions  of  light, 
To  recline  on  the  breast  of  my  parent,  Night ! 
To  soften  the  gloom  in  her  mournful  eye, 
And  guide  her  steps  through  the  darkeh'd  sky  ! 
I  come  to  the  earth  in  my  mystic  array ; 
Rest,  rest  from  the  toils  and  the  cares  of  the  day  ! 
I  will  lull  each  discordant  emotion  to  sleep, 
As  I  hush  the  wild  waves  of  the  turbulent  deep, 
And  my  watch  o'er  the  couch  of  their  slumbers  I  keep. 
The  streams  murmur  'peace,'  as  I  steal  through  the  sky 
And  hush'd  are  the  winds,  which  swept  fitfully  by ; 
The  bee  nestles  down  on  the  breast  of  the  ro&e, 
And  the  wild  birds  of  summer  are  seeking  repose. 
All  nature  salutes  me,  so  solemn,  so  fair, 
And  a  glad  shout  of  welcome  is  borne  on  the  air. 
Now,  now  is  the  moment,  and  here  is  the  way 
For  the  spirit  to  mount  from  its  temple  of  clay, 
And  soar  on  my  pinions  to  regions  sublime, 
Beyond  the  broad  flight  of  the  giant-wing'd  Time" 
1837.  [Unfinished.] 


IMITATION  OF  A  SCOTCH  BALLAD. 

SWEETS  of  the  glowing  spring 

Float  on  the  air ; 
Gaily  the  birdies  sing, 

Banishm'  care. 
Softly  the  burnies  flow, 
Gently  the  breezes  blow, 
I  to  my  Jeanie,  oh, 

Gaily  repair. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  107 

Fair  as  the  simmer  flower 

SippM  by  the  bee ; 
Blithe  as  the  weenie  birds 

Singin'  their  glee; 
Fresh  as  the  drappin'  dew, 
Pure  as  the  gowan's  hue, 
Ever  gay  an'  ever  true, 

Is  Jeanie  to  me. 

Bright  as  the  gowden  beam 

Gildin'  the  morn; 
Sweet  as  the  simmer's  wind 

Wavin'  the  corn ; 
Sic  is  my  Jeanie,  oh, 
Stainless  as  winter  snow, 
Given  to  the  warld  below 

Life  to  adorn. 

Joy  to  thee,  bonnie  lass, 

Gently  an'  braw, 
Thou,  'mang  the  fairest, 

Art  fairer  than  a' ; 
Still  mayst  thou  gladsome  be, 
Ever  from  sorrow  free, 
Blessings  upon  thine  e'e 

Numberless  fa'. 

Grief  may  bedim  the  while 

Joy's  glowing  flame ; 
Sorrow  may  steal  the  smile 

From  its  sweet  hame ; 
But  the  sweet  flow'ret  love, 
Native  of  heaven  above, 
In  the  dark  storm  shall  prove 

Ever  the  same. 


ERE  THOU  DIDST  FORM. 

ERE  thou  didst  form  this  teeming  earth, 
Or  gave  these  mighty  mountains  birth ; 
Ere  mortal  pressed  this  yielding  sod; 
From  everlasting  thou  art  God ! 

Thousands  of  years,  when  passed  away, 
Seem,  in  thy  sight,  one  fleeting  day ; 
Ages,  where  man  may  live  and  die, 
An  hour  to  thy  eternity ! 

Years  roll  on  with  a  rolling  stream, 
They  fade  like  shadows  in  a  dream  ! 
Like  grass,  which  springs  at  morning  light, 
And  withers  ere  the  close  of  night ! 


MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

For  thou  art  mighty  in  thine  ire — 
Thy  wrath  consumes  like  flaming  fire; 
And,  spread  before  thy  searching  eye, 
Our  sins  in  dreadful  order  lie. 
1837.  [Unfinished.] 


A  FRAGMENT. 

I  SEE  her  seraph  form,  her  flowing  hair, 

Her  brow  and  cheek  so  exquisitely  fair ; 

Her  smiling  lips,  her  dark  eye's  radiant  beam — 

A  dream  ? — this  is  not,  cannot  be  a  dream  ! 

They  tell  me  'tis  some  wild  and  phrensied  thought, 

Some  glowing  spark  from  fancy's  altar  caught ; 

Some  glowing  spirit,  fancied  and  unknown, 

Which  reigns  supreme  on  Reason's  vanquish'd  throne. 

1837. 


FRAGMENT  OF  THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM 

THUS  thought  I,  while  in  pensive  mood, 
Beneath  a  frowning  cliff  I  stood, 
And  mark'd  the  autumn  sun  decline 
Above  the  broad  and  heaving  Rhine  ! 
Oh,  'twas  a  rich  and  gorgeous  sight, 
But  all  too  solemn  to  be  bright. 
A  saddening  hue  was  o'er  it  cast, 
Which  seem'-d  to  tell  of  glories  past, 
Of  summer  ripen'd  to  decay, 
Of  ancient  splendours  past  away. 
The  parting  monarch's  dying  glow 
Fell  on  the  restless  waves  below, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  dyed 
With  hues  from  heaven  the  sparkling  tide. 
The  fleeting  ray  an  instant  beam'd, 
O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  rock  it  streamM, 
Till  the  dark,  time-defying  cliff, 
Seem'd  glowing,  melting  into  life, 
And  the  broad  scene,  so  sad  and  wild, 
Beneath  its  gentle  influence  smiled, 
As  care  lifts  up  its  sorrowing  eye, 
When  hope  has  cast  a  sunbeam  by ; 
Then  swiftly  fading,  glided  o'er, 
And  left  it  lonely  as  before. 
The  distant  hills  of  sombre  blue, 
Tinged  with  that  rich  and  varying  hue, 
Now  darker  and  more  mingled  grew, 
While  nearer  rose  so  wild  and  bold 
The  rugged  cliffs  of  Odenwald. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  199 

The  Rhine,  enrobed  in  shadows  gray, 

Roll'd  on  its  giant  path, 
Lashing  the  rocks  which  barr'd  its  way, 
Now  curling  graceful,  as  in  play, 

Now  roaring,  as  in  wrath. 
The  forests  murmur'd,  bow'd,  and  slept, 
But  on  the  mighty  river  swept, 
As  in  impatient  haste  to  gain 
The  gentler  waters  of  the  Maine, 
Which  flow'd  along  in  stately  pride, 
To  mingle  with  its  parent  tide. 
But  where  the  kindred  waters  meet, 

A  rugged  cliff  there  stood  ; 
It  rose  above  the  eddying  waves, 
With  hanging  rocks  and  yawning  caves, 

The  guardian  of  the  flood  ; 
Fit  haunt  it  seem'd  for  giant  forms 

Of  wild,  unearthly  mould, 
The  spirits  of  the  winds  and  storms 

Their  mystic  rites  to  hold. 
And  o'er  its  rugged  brow  was  spread 

The  forest  moss  and  flower, 
And,  'mid  a  grove  of  solemn  firs, 

Arose  a  ruin'd  tower ; 
The  ivied  walls  and  turrets  gray 
Seem'd  vainly  struggling  with  decay, 
Still  frowning  o'er  the  restless  tide, 
An  emblem  of  unyielding  pride. 
All,  all  was  desolate  and  lone ; — 
Beside  its  walls  of  crumbling  stone 
A  giant  beech  its  arms  had  thrown, 

And  ivy  on  its  threshold  grew; 
The  shouts  of  mirth,  the  cries  of  strife, 
The  varied  sounds  of  bustling  life, 

Its  walls  no  longer  knew ; 
The  moaning  winds  rush'd  fitful  by, 
Blent  with  the  owlet's  dismal  cry, 
And  every  sad  and  mournful  blast 
Seem'd  sadly  wailing  for  the  past ! 
Scarce  could  the  wandering  eye  discern 
In  that  rude  pile,  so  dark  and  stern, 
The  remnants  of  its  lofty  wall, 
The  area  of  its  spacious  hall, 
Or  trace  in  masses  rude  and  steep, 
What  once  was  barbacan  and  keep. 
*  *  *  *  * 

"Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time  !"  and  bring 

The  faded  visions  of  the  past, 
And  o'er  the  bard's  enchanted  string 

Thy  veil  of  shadowy  softness  cast ! 
Fancy,  unfold  thy  swiftest  wing ! 

Thou  dreary  present,  be  no  more  ! 
And  I  will  tune  my  heart  to  sing 

In  simple  strains  the  days  of  yore  ' 


200  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

These  ruin'd  walls  again  shall  rise 

In  all  their  ancient  pride  and  power, 
Again  the  gorgeous  banner  float 

In  triumph  from  the  stately  tower ! 
The  moss,  the  thoVn,  the  poisonous  weed 

Shall  vanish  from  the  cheerful  hearth, 
And  the  rude  hall  again  resound 

With  shouts  of  revelry  and  mirth ! 
Again  beside  that  ruin'd  gate 

The  guard  shall  pace  his  weary  round, 
Again  the  warder's  midnight  cry 

Within  its  massive  turrets  sound ; 
Again  the  bright  convivial  band 

Shall  close  around  its  joyous  hearth, 
Again  the  vaulted  halls  return 

The  shouts  of  revelry  and  mirth. 
Oh,  I  could  tell  of  thrilling  scenes 

Enacted  in  that  lone  retreat ; 
How  its  paved  courts  have  echoed  back 

The  clanking  tread  of  armed  feet ; 
How  savage  chiefs  and  knights  of  old, 
With  forms  and  souls  of  iron  mould, 
Have  gather 'd  round  this  mountain  .hold, 

And  form'd  their  councils  here, 
Then  rush'd  upon  the  field  below, 

With  clashing  sword  and  spear; 
And  I  could  tell  of  princely  dames, 
•  Of  powerful  lords  and  highborn  peers, 

Who  dream'd  not  that  their  honour'd  names 

Could  perish  in  the  lapse  of  years, 
Or  only  live  at  times  to  aid 

The  wandering  minstrel's  random  song ; 
An  old  traditionary  tale 

To  float  on  memory's  tide  along ; 
And  I  could  sing  full  many  a  strain 

Would  call  the  life-blood  from  the  cheek, 
What  fancy's  eye  would  shrink  to  see, 

And  boldest  tongue  would  fear  to  speak. 
But  I  will  leave  to  nobler  hands 

The  framing  of  those  mystic  lays, 
And  only  weave  a  simple  tale 

Of  later  and  of  gentler  days, 
When  daring  souls  of  daring  deeds 

Gave  place  to  peaceful  knights  and  squires, 
And  warlike  gatherings  on  the  field 

To  feastings  round  their  evening  fires ; 
When  nought  remain'd  of  olden  times, 

Of  strife  and  rivalry  and  blood, 
Save  where  some  sterner  barons  held 

The  remnants  of  an  ancient  feud. 

'T  was  morning,  and  the  shades  of  night 
Roll'd  backward  from  her  brow  of  light, 


POETICAL  REMAINS,  201 

As  with  majestic  step  she  came, 
With  dewy  locks  and  eyes  of  flame, 
Her  wreath  of  dancing  light  to  twine 
On  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Rhine. 
The  scene  beneath  her  spread  was  rife 
With  sights  and  sounds  of  bustling  life, 
Of  joyful  shouts,  and  glad  halloo, 
And  quick  steps  running  to  and  fro. 
The  castle  walls,  so  dark  and  gray 
Tinged  with  the  morning's  cheerful  ray, 
Seem'd  revelling  their  gloom  away, 
While  from  the  court  came,  long  and  loud, 
The  shouts  of  an  assembled  crowd, 
And  on  the  mountain  echoes  borne, 
Peal'd  out  the  huntsman's  mellow  horn. 
The  clanking  drawbridge  fell  across 
The  sparkling  waters  of  the  foss, 
And  servants  hurried  here  and  there 
With  bustling  and  important  air ; 
Oft  from  the  forest  would  appear 

A  group  that  bore  the  slaughter'd  deer, 
And  distant  shouts  would  faintly  tell 

As  some  new  victim  bleeding  fell. 

Light  skiffs  were  floating  down  the  Rhine. 

Laden  with  casks  of  choicest  wine, 

And  oarsmen  bore  the  precious  freight 

For  entrance  to  the  postern  gate. 

Oft  on  the  noisy  tide  along 

The  minstrel  pour'd  his  careless  song, 

And  all  without  was  bustling  glee. 
*  #  #  *  * 

Within,  the  castle  hall  was  graced 

With  oaken  tables,  closely  placed, 

In  preparation  for  a  feast; 

The  ancient  armour  on  the  wall 

Was  cleansed,  and  gilt,  and  burnish'd  all ; 

And  helm,  and  casque,  and  corslet  shone 

Like  mirrors  in  the  morning  sun ; 

Oh,  could  the  warlike  forms  which  wore 

Those  garments  grim  in  days  of  yore, 

Come  to  their  mountain  home  once  more, 

How  would  they  frown  on  scene  so  gay, 

And  sigh  for  spirits  past  away  ! 

Beside  the  hearthstone  of  his  hall, 
The  lord  and  master  of  them  all, 
The  owner  of  this  proud  domain, 
Stood,  gazing  on  his  menial  train. 
His  ample  robes  were  rich  and  gay, 
His  locks  were  slightly  tinged  with  gray, 
His  eye,  beneath  its  darker  shroud, 
Glanced,  like  a  sunbeam  from  a  cloud. 
17 


202  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Hope  realized  and  love's  warm  glow 

Seem'd  mingling  o*er  his  furrow'd  brow. 

And  smiles  of  pleasnre  told  in  part 

The  inward  gladness  of  his  heart, 

But  ever  and  anon  there  stole 

Some  softer  feeling  o'er  his  soul, 

And  something  like  a  tear  would  roll 

Unnoticed  down  his  furrow'd  cheek, — 

The  child  of  thoughts  he  could  not  speak. 

Why  rings  the  old  castle  with  gladness  this  morn  ? 

Why  echoes  the  wood  with  the  blithe  hunter's  horn  ? 

Why  slandeth  their  lord  with  his  train  at  their  side, 

And  his  eye  beaming  lightly  with  gratified  pride  ? 

This  day  it  shall  close  o'er  his  doubts  and  his  fears, 

It  shall  witness  the  realized  wishes  of  years, 

And  his  name  shall  be  join'd,  by  the  dearest  of  ties, 

To  the  only  one  worthy  so  brilliant  a  prize. 

Whose  fathers  of  old  were  his  fathers'  allies. 

Why  stealeth  the  teardrop  so  sad  to  his  eye  ? 

Why  bursts  from  his  bosom  the  half-smother'd  sigh  ? 

Alas,  for  that  father !  this  day  he  must  part 

From  the  pride  of  his  household,  the  joy  of  his  heart; 

No  more  may  he  gaze  on  his  beautiful  child. 

Whose  step  ever  bounded,  whose  lip  ever  smil'd ; 

Who  cast  such  a  charm  o'er  bis  wild  mountain  life 

As  the  sunbeam  may  throw  o'er  the  dark  frowning  cliff. 

Now  read  ye  the  cause  of  the  joyful  array  ? 

*Tis  to  welcome  the  lord  of  this  festival  day ; 

For  he  comes  with  his  glittering  train  by  his  side, 

To  claim  of  her  father  his  beautiful  bride. 


1837. 


ELEGY  UPON  LEO,  AN  OLD  HOUSE-DOG. 

THOU  poor  old  dog !  too  long  affection's  tongue 
Hath  left  thy  merits  and  thy  death  unsung ; 
Too  long  the  muse  hath  sought  for  themes  of  fame, 
And  left  untold  thy  well-remember'd  name  ; 
And  though  that  name  hath  lived  on  memory's  leafi 
Has  touch'd  for  thee  no  thrilling  chords  of  grief. 
Thou  dear  old  dog  !  thou  joy  of  childish  years  ! 
Here  let  me  shed  for  thee  my  heartfelt  tears ; 
Here  let  me  turn  from  life's  cold  cares  aside, 
And  weep  that  thou,  my  faithful  friend,  hast  died. 
Oh  that  no  tears  less  pure  might  e'er  be  shed, 
Than  those  which  mourn  a  loved  companion  dead ! 
This  is  a  world  where  faithful  hearts  are  few, 
Where  love  too  oft  is  vain,  too  oft  untrue; 
And  when  some  cherish'd  form  to  earth  is  borne, 
O'er  fond  affection's  severM  chain  we  mourn ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  203 

Thus  I  for  thee,  that  one  more  friend  hath  gone, 
Who,  though  a  dog,  could  love  for  love  alone. 
Thou  dear  old  friend  !  on  memory's  starlit  tide, 
Link'd  with  a  sister's  name  thy  name  shall  glide ; 
And  when  for  her  our  tears  flow  fast  and  free, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  a  ling'ring  sigh  for  thee ; 
For  thee,  that  sister's  dearest,  earliest  pet, 
Whom  even  when  dying  she  remember'd  yet, 
Thou  wast  her  playmate  in  each  childish  hour, 
When  her  light  footsteps  sprang  from  flower  to  flower ; 
When  not  a  cloud  on  life's  fair  surface  lay, 
And  joys  alternate  chased  the  hours  away; 
When  her  young  heart  beat  high  with  infant  glee, 
And  fondly  sought  to  share  those  joys  with  thee. 
And  when  youth's  star  arose  on  childhood's  morn, 
And  loftier  thoughts  on  time's  dark  wing  were  borne; 
When  hope  look'd  forward  with  exulting  eye, 
And  fear,  the  coward,  still  crouch'd  trembling  nigh  ; 
When  long  had  pass'd  those  hours  of  infant  glee, 
Still,  still  she  loved,  and  still  would  sport  with  thee. 
1837.  [Unfinished.] 


MORNING. 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  a  scene  is  this ! 
When  nature,  waking  from  her  silent  sleep, 
Bursts  forth  in  light,  and  harmony,  and  joy  ! 
When  earth,  and  sky,  and  air  are  glowing  all 
With  gaiety  and  life,  and  pensive  shades 
Of  morning  loveliness  are  cast  around  ! 
The  purple  clouds,  so  streak'd  with  crimson  light, 
Bespeak  the  coming  of  majestic  day ; 
Mark  how  the  crimson  grows  more  crimson  still, 
While  ever  and  anon  a  golden  beam 
Seems  darting  out  its  radiance! 
Herald  of  day!  where  is  that  mighty  form 
Which  clothes  you  all  in  splendour,  and  around 
Your  colourless,  pale  forms  spreads  the  bright  hues 
Of  heaven  ?     He  cometh  from  his  gorgeous  couch, 
And  gilds  the  bosom  of  the  glowing  east. 
1837. 


LINES 

BITTEN  AFTER  SHE  BEGAN  TO  FEAR  THAT  HER  DISEASE  WAS  PAST  REMEDY. 

I  ONCE  thought  life  was  beautiful, 

I  once  thought  life  was  fair, 
Nor  deem'd  that  all  its  light  could  fade 

And  leave  but  darkness  there. 


204  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  now  I  know  it  could  not  last — 
The  fairy  dream  has  fled ! 

Though  thirteen  summers  scarce  have  past 
Above  this  youthful  head. 

Yes,  life — 'twas  all  a  dream — but  now 

I  see  thee  as  thou  art; 
I  see  how  slight  a  thing  can  shade 

The  sunshine  of  the  heart. 

I  see  that  all  thy  brightest  hours, 
Unmark'd,  have  pass'd  away ; 

And  now  I  feel  how  sweet  they  were, 
I  cannot  bid  them  stay. 

In  childish  love  or  childish  play 
My  happiest  hours  were  spent, 

While  scarce  my  infant  tongue  could  say 
What  joy  or  pleasure  meant. 

And  now,  when  my  young  heart  looks  up, 
Life's  gayest  smiles  to  meet ; 

Now,  when"  in  youth  her  brightest  charms 
Would  seem  so  doubly  sweet ; 

Now  fade  the  dreams  which  bound  my  som 
As  with  the  chains  of  truth ; 

Oh  that  those  dreams  had  stay'd  awhile, 
To  vanish  with  my  youth  ! 

Oh !  once  did  hope  look  sweetly  down, 
To  check  each  rising  sigh ; 

But  disappointment's  iron  frown 
Has  dimm'd  her  sparkling  eye. 

And  once  I  loved  a  brother  too, 
Our  youngest  and  our  best, 

But  death's  unerring  arrow  sped, 
And  laid  him  down  to  rest. 


But  now  I  know  those  hours  of  peace 
Were  never  form'd  to  last ; 

That  those  fair  days  of  guileless  joy 
Are  past — for  ever  past ! 

January,  1837. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  •  20.1 


TO  MY  OLD  HOME  AT  PLATTSBURG. 

THAT  dear  old  home,  where  pass'd  my  childhood's  years, 

Where  fond  affection  wiped  my  infant  tears ; 

Where  first  I  learn'd  from  whence  my  blessings  came, 

And  lisp'd,  in  faltering  tones,  a  mother's  name ; 

That  cherish'd  home,  where  memory  fondly  clings, 

Where  eager  fancy  spreads  her  soaring  wings  ; 

Around  whose  scenes  my  thoughts  delight  to  stray, 

And  pass  the  hours  in  pleasing  dreams  away. 

Oh !  shall  I  ne'er  behold  thy  waves  again, 

My  native  lake,  my  beautiful  Champlain  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  above  thy  ripples  bend 

In  sweet  communion  with  my  childhood's  friend  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  behold  thy  rolling  wave, 

The  patriot's  cradle  and  the  warrior's  grave  ? 

Thy  banks,  illumined  by  the  sun's  last  glow, 

Thine  islets  mirror'd  in  the  waves  below  ? 

Back,  back,  thou  present — robed  in  shadows  lie ! 

And  rise  the  past  before  my  raptured  eye ! 

Fancy  shall  gild  the  frowning  lapse  between, 

And  memory's  hand  shall  paint  the  glowing  scene  ; 

And  I  shall  view  my  much-loved  home  again, 

My  native  village  and  my  sweet  Champlain, 

With  former  friends  retrace  my  footsteps  o'er, 

And  muse  delighted  on  thy  verdant  shore. 

Alas !  the  vision  fades,  the  dream  is  past ; 

Dissolved  the  spell  by  sportive  fancy  cast ! 

Why,  why  should  thus  our  brightest  dreams  depart, 

And  scenes  illusive  cheat  the  sorrowing  heart  ? 

Where'er  through  future  life  my  footsteps  roam, 

I  ne'er  shall  find  a  spot  like  thee,  my  home ! 

With  all  my  joys  the  thoughts  of  thee  shall  blend, 

And  join'd  with  thee  shall  rise  my  childhood's  friend ! 

1837. 


FAME. 

A     FRAGMENT. 

OH  Fame  !  thou  trumpeter  of  dead  men's  deeds  ! 
Thou  idol  of  the  heart,  thou  empty  flatterer, 
That,  like  the  heathen  of  the  Nile,  embalmest 
Those  that  thou  design's!  to  love,  and  ever  hiding 
Their  vices  and  their  follies  with  a  veil 
Of  soft  concealment,  doth  exalt  them  high 
Above  the  common  crowd,  crown'd  with  thy  might, 

17* 


200  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

That  future  years  may  copy  and  admire. 
Thou  bright,  alluring  dream  !  thou  dazzling  star ' 
Where  shall  we  find  thee  !     Thou  art  call'd 
Fickle  and  vain,  and  worthless  of  pursuit, 
Yet        ***** 
1838. 


ON  MY  MOTHER'S  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

YES,  mother,  fifty  years  have  fled, 
With  rapid  footsteps  o'er  thy  head ; 
Have  pass'd  with  all  their  motley  train, 
And  left  thee  on  thy  co'uch  of  pain ! 
How  many  smiles,  and  sighs,  and  tears, 
How  many  hopes,  and  doubts,  and  fears, 
Have  vanish'd  with  that  lapse  of  years ! 
Though  past,  those  hours  of  pain  and  grief 
Have  left  their  trace  on  memory's  leaf; 
Have  stamp'd  their  footprints  on  the  heart, 
In  lines  which  never  can  depart ; 
Their  influence  on  the  mind  must  be 
As  endless  as  eternity. 
Years,  ages,  to  oblivion  roll, 
Their  memory  forms  the  deathless  soul ; 
They  leave  their  impress  as  they  go, 
And  shape  the  mind  for  joy  or  woe ! 
Yes,  mother,  fifty  years  have  past, 
And  brought  thee  to  their  close  at  last. 
Oh  that  we  all  could  gaze,  like  thee, 
Back  on  that  dark  and  tideless,  sea, 
And  'mid  its  varied  records  find 
A  heart  at  ease  with  all  mankind, 
A  firm  and  self-approving  mind ! 
Grief,  that  had  broken  hearts  less  fine, 
Hath  only  served  to  strengthen  thine  ; 
Time,  that  doth  chill  the  fancy's  play, 
Hath  kindled  thine  with  purer  ray ; 
And  stern  disease,  whose  icy  dart 
Hath  power  to  chill  the  shrinking  heart, 
Has  left  thine  warm  with  Jove  and  truth, 
As  in  the  halcyon  days  of  youth. 
Oh  turn  not  from  the  meed  of  praise 
A  daughter's  willing  justice  pays; 
But  greet  with  smiles  of  love  again 
This  tribute  of  a  daughter's  pen 
1838. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  207 


THE  STORM  HATH  PASSED  BY. 

THE  etorm  hath  pass'd  by,  like  an  angry  cloud 
Which  sweeps  o'er  the  brow  of  the  azure  heaven; 

The  sun  and  the  earth  to  its  sway  hath  bow'd, 

And  each  radiant  beam  from  the  scene  been  driven 

All  hail  to  the  smile  of  the  cloudless  sky ! 

All  hail  to  the  sun  as  he  rides  on  high ! 

All  hail  to  the  heavens'  ethereal  blue, 

And  to  nature,  when  deck'd  in  her  own  lovely  hue ! 

It  hath  pass'd  !  the  storm,  like  a  giant  form, 

Which  summons  the  winds  from  their  tempest  cave ; 
Which  opens  a  grave  in  each  ocean  wave, 

And  wraps  the  world  in  its  shroud  of  gloom. 

Oh  !  welcome  the  smile  of  the  gladden'd  earth  ! 
And  welcome  the  voice  of  the  wood-bird's  mirth  ! 
And  welcome  these  varying  hues  which  delight 
Like  dawn  at  the  close  of  a  wearisome  night. 

The  clouds  have  pass'd,  with  the  shadows  they  cast, 
And  hush'd  is  the  sound  of  the  wind-god's  power. 

And  his  deep,  wild  blast,  as  the  tempest  pass'd, 
Which  rang  on  the  ear  at  the  midnight  hour. 

Oh  !  welcome  the  soft,  balmy  zephyrs  of  spring  ! 
And  welcome  the  perfumes  they  silently  bring ! 
And  the  rosy-tinged  cloudlets  that  gracefully  glide 
O'er  the  fair  brow  of  heaven  in  beauty  and  pride! 

It  hath  fled  in  its  night,  the  dark  spirit  of  night, 
Which  cast  such  a  shade  o'er  the  light  of  the  sou! ; 

It  hath  fled  and  died,  while  the  sunset  beam 

From  its  surface  triumphantly  backward  shall  roll. 

Oh  !  welcome  the  smiles  of  a  gladden'd  heart! 
And  welcome  the  joy  which  those  smiles  impart ! 
And  welcome  the  light  of  that  sparkling  eye 
Which  tells  that  the  storm  in  its  dread  hath  pass'd  by  J 
Ballston,  1838. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  YOUNG  ROBIN. 

DESPITE  the  curling  lip,  the  smile  of  scorn, 
Thine  early  fate,  oh  !  hapless  bird,  we  mourn ; 
Too  soon  withdrawn  thy  scanty  store  of  breath, 
Too  soon  thy  sprightly  carols  hush'd  in  death  ! 
Here  let  us  lay  thee  on  thy  mother's  breast, 
Where  no  rude  steps  shall  come,  no  cares  molest, 
No  cruel  puss  disturb  thy  silent  rest. 
Saratoga,  1838. 


208  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


TO  A  MOONBEAM. 

AH,  whither  art  straying,  thou  spirit  of  light, 
From  thy  home  in  the  boundless  sky  ? 

Why  Jookest  thou  down  from  the  empire  of  night, 
With  that  silent  and  sorrowful  eye  ? 

Thou  art  resting  here  on  the  autumn  leaf, 
Where  it  fell  from  its  throne  of  pride ; 

But  oh,  what  pictures  of  joy  or  grief, 
What  scenes  thou  art  viewing  beside  ! 

Thou  art  glancing  down  on  the  ocean  waves, 

As  they  proudly  heave  and  swell ; 
Thou  art  piercing  deep  in  its  coral  caves, 

Where  the  green-hair'd  sea-nymphs  dwell ! 

Thou  art  pouring  thy  beams  on  Italia's  shore, 

As  though  it  were  sweet  to  be  there ; 
Thou  art  lighting  the  prince  to  his  stately  couch, 

And  the  monk  to  his  midnight  prayer. 

Thou  art  casting  a  fretwork  of  silver  rays 

Over  ruin,  and  palace,  and  tower ; 
Thou  art  gilding  the  temples  of  former  days, 

In  this  holy  and  beautiful  hour. 

Thou  art  silently  roaming  through  forest  and  glade, 
Where  mortal  foot  never  hath  trod ; 

Thou  art  lighting  the  grave  where  the  dust  is  laid, 
While  the  spirit  hath  gone  to  its  God  ! 

Thou  art  looking  on  those  I  love !  oh,  wake 
In  their  hearts  some  remembrance  of  me, 

And  gaze  on  them  thus,  till  their  bosoms  partake 
Of  the  Jove  I  am  breathing  to  thee. 

And  perchance  thou  art  casting  thy  mystic  spell 

On  the  beautiful  land  of  the  blest, 
Where  the  dear  ones  of  earth  have  departed  to  dwell, 

Where  the  weary  have  fled  to  their  rest. 

Oh  yes !  with  that  soft  and  ethereal  beam, 
Thou  hast  look'd  on  the  mansions  of  bliss, 

And  some  spirit,  perchance,  of  that  glorified  world 
Hath  breathed  thee  a  message  to  this. 

'T  is  a  mission  of  love,  for  no  threatening  shade 
Can  be  blent  with  thy  spirit-like  hues, 

And  thy  ray  thrills  the  heart,  as  love  only  can  thril), 
And  while  raising  it,  melts  and  subdues. 

And  it  whispers  compassion ;  for  lo,  on  thy  brow 

Is  the  sadness  of  angels  enshrined ; 
And  a  misty  veil,  as  of  purified  tears, 

Round  thy  beautiful  form  is  entwined. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  209 

Hail,  beam  of  the  blessed  !  my  heart 

Has  drunk  deep  of  thy  magical  power, 
And  each  thought  and  each  feeling  seems  bathed 

In  the  light  of  this  exquisite  hour ! 
Sweet  ray,  I  have  proved  thee  so  fair 

In  this  dark  world  of  mourning  and  sin, 
May  I  hail  thee  more  bright  in  that  pure  region,  where 

Nor  sorrow  nor  death  enter  in. 

1838. 


EVENING. 

O'ER  the  broad  vault  of  heaven,  so  calmly  bright, 

Twilight  has  gently  drawn  her  veil  of  gray, 

And  tinged  with  sombre  hue  the  golden  clouds, 

Fast  fading  into  nothing :  o'er  the  expanse 

Are  swiftly  stealing  hues,  which  mildly  blend 

And  shadow  o'er  the  pure  transparence 

Of  the  az-ure  heaven.     Now  is  night  array'd 

In  all  her  solemn  livery,  and  one  by  one 

Appear  the  sparkling  gems  which  deck  her  robe. 

Each  glittering  star  shines  brighter  than  its  wont, 

As  though  some  brilliant  festival  were  held, 

Some  joyful  meeting  in  the  courts  above. 

Now  mark  yon  group  of  amber-tinted  clouds, 

Shrouding  the  silvery  form  of  Luna ; 

Their  melting  tints  vanish  away,  and  then 

The  pale,  cold  moon  springs  up  unshackled 

In  her  vast  domain.     Fair  empress  of  the  sky ! 

Chaste  queen !  thy  hallow'd  beauty  can  impart 

A  soften'd  radiance  to  each  sombre  cloud 

Of  melancholy  night,  and,  like  a  noble  mind, 

Immersed  in  seas  of  darkness,  thou  canst  cast 

A  portion  of  thy  brilliant,  mellow'd  softness 

Around  the  deepening  gloom.     While  viewing  thee 

A  sweet  and  pensive  calm  o'erspreads  my  soul, 

And,  conjured  by  thy  gentle,  melting  rays, 

Unerring  memory  hastens  to  my  aid ; 

With  her,  I  view  again  my  own  dear  home, 

My  native  village,  'neath  thy  cloudless  sky 

Serenely  sleeping  :  't  is  as  fair  a  picture 

Of  unsullied  peace  as  ever  nature  drew. 

Thy  rays  are  dancing  on  the  gentle  river, 

In  one  unbroken  stream  of  molten  silver, 

And  marking  in  the  glassy  Saranac 

Thy  graceful  outline,  while  the  fairy  isles 

WThich  on  its  bosom  rest  are  slumbering 

In  thy  light,  while  the  fair  branches,  bending 

O'er  thy  wave,  turn  their  green  leaves  above, 

And  bathe  in  one  celestial  flood  of  glory. 


210  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

There,  on  its  banks,  I  view  the  dear  old  home, 
That  ever  loved  and  blooming  theatre, 
Where  those  I  most  revere  have  borne  their  parts, 
Amid  its  changing  scenes.     Before  the  threshold 
Tower  the  lofty  trees,  and  each  high  branch 
Is  gently  rocking  in  the  summer  breeze, 
And  sending  forth  a  low,  sweet  murmur, 
Like  the  soft  breathings  of  a  seraph's  harp. 
Around  its  humble  porch  entwines  the  vine, 
While  the  sweetbriar  and  the  blushing  rose 
Now  hang  their  heads  in  slumber,  and  the  grass 
And  fragrant  clover  scent  the  loaded  air. 
Oh,  rny  loved  home,  how  gladly  would  I  rove 
Amid  thy  soft  retreats,  and  from  decay 
Protect  thy  mouldering  mansion,  tend  thy  flowers, 
Prune  the  wild  boughs,  and  there  in  solitude 
Listless  remain,  unknowing  and  unknown — 
Oh  no,  not  quite  alone,  for  memory, 
And  hope,  and  fond  delight  shall  mingle  there. 
1838.  [Unfinished.] 


A  POETICAL  LETTER  TO  HENRIETTA. 

ONCE  more,  Henrietta,  I  open  your  sheet 

To  glance  at  its  contents  so  playful  and  sweet, 

To  admire  the  flow  of  its  easy  strain, 

And  pen  you  an  answer  in  nonsense  again. 

Perchance  you  may  turn  from  my  page  away, 

And  with  scornful  lip  and  expression  say, 

"  I  think  she  might  better  have  spent  her  time, 

Than  in  stringing  such  masses  of  jingling  rhyme;" 

And  perhaps  I  might, — I  admit  the  blame, 

But  like  others,  continue  rny  fault  the  same. 

However,  I  think  such  a  deacon  as  you 

May  need  the  refreshment  of  nonsense  too; 

That  a  creatufe  so  sober  as  you  are,  my  friend, 

Her  ear  to  the  whisperings  of  folly  may  lend. 

Never  mind— 'tis  a  fancy  has  cross'd  rny  brain, 

Right  or  wrong,  good  or  evil,  I'll  finish  rny  strain. 

I  wish  you,  my  dear  Henrietta,  could  know 

How  much  I  am  grieved  that  I  now  cannot  go, 

That  our  dreams  of  enjoyment  have  vanish'd  in  smoke 

And  the  castles  we  builded  on  vapour  are  broke  ! 

But  such  are  the  chances  of  life, — it  is  fit 

That  with  stoical  fortitude  we  should  submit. 

Am  I  not  philosophic? — A  fortnight  pass'd  by 

With  its  fretting  and  grieving,  its  tear  and  its  sigh  ; 

Then —  a  month,  peopled  well  with  regretting  by  me, 

And — behold  me  submissive  as  mortal  can  be ! 

But  jesting  aside — 'tis  a  very  sad  thing 

To  be  torn  from  hope's  anchor,  where  fondly  we  cling. 


POETICAL   REMAINS. 

I  too  had  been  cherishing  feelings  as  vain, 

Nursing  hopes  as  delusive,  as  sweet  in  rny  brain  ; 

I  had  waited  in  fancy  your  loved  form  to  see, 

With  a  heart  just  as  happy  as  happy  could  be  ; 

Had  met  you,  embraced  you,  and  welcomed  you  here. 

When  lo  1  the  bright  dream  dissolved  in  a  tear ! 

Like  the  gay,  gorgeous  bubble,  which  floats  for  awhile, 

But  departs  "ere  you  welcome  its  hues  with  a  smile. 

You  were  wishing  for  wings — I  enclose  you  a  pair, 

Which  I  hope  you  will  use  with  all  possible  care, 

For  they  were  not  prepared  in  a  mortal  mould, 

But  were  form'd  by  a  fairy  in  purple  and  gold  ! 

While  riding  one  day  by  the  green-wood  side, 

This  fairy  in  beautiful  garments  I  spied  ; 

Her  mantle  with  dew-drops  was  spangled  o'er — 

She  had  fairies  behind  her  and  fairies  before, 

And  many  and  gay  were  the  jewels  she  wore ; 

But  the  wings  which  she  raised  to  her  delicate  brow 

Were  the  purest  of  azure  and  white  as  the  snow  ! 

I  bow'd  at  the  foot  of  the  fairy  throne, 

And  begg'd  of  her  beautiful  wings  like  her  own. 

I  sued  tor  the  favour  in  friendship's  name  ; 

She  assented,  and  smiling,  admitted  the  claim. 

All  sparkling  and  pure  as  the  evening  star, 

I  gather'd  the  wings  from  the  fairy's  bower, 

And  came  home  exulting,  impatient  to  send 

The  gift  in  its  freshness  and  glow  to  my  friend. 

Elated  with  pride  I  exposed  them  to  view, 

But  the  touch  of  a  mortal  had  clouded  their  hue  ! 

So  marvel  no  more  at  their  dimness  —  believe 

That  the  very  same  wings  are  the  wings  you  receive. 

Should  my  story  too  wild  and  too  fanciful  seem, 

Oh,  call  it  no  fiction,  but  name  it  —  a  dream. 

I  am  reading  "Josephus,"  a  famous  old  Jew, 

Whose  name  is,  I  doubt  not,  familiar  to  you. 

He  begins  with  the  world,  and  proceeds  to  relate 

How  the  Jews  from  a  nothing  grew  prosperous  and  great ; 

How  Jerusalem  reign'd  as  the  Queen  of  the  East, 

Till  her  sacred  religion  was  scorn'd  and  oppress'd ; 

Then  murder,  and  rapine,  and  famine  ensued, 

Till  the  fields  of  Judea  were  streaming  with  biood. 

How  I  wish  you  were  reading  it  with  me,  my  fru-nd  • 

Your  presence  a  charm  to  each  sentence  would  lend. 

Your  father's  return,  you  remark,  is  the  time 

To  send  you  a  budget  of  love  and  of  rhyme ; 

The  love  be  assured  you  will  always  possess, 

And  you'll  have  rhyme  enough  when  you  once  have  read  this. 

So  you  see  what  that  love  has  induced  me  to  do, 

With  it  maybe  a  fear  of  your  scolding  too  !  — 

It  is  evening  —  the  close  of  a  beautiful  day, 
And  the  last  rays  of  sunset  are  fading  away; 


212  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Till  nothing  remains  hut  a  faint  rosy  hue, 

Just  mingling  in  with  a  fainter  blue. 

The  shadows  of  twilight  are  closing  around, 

Not  a  murmur  is  heard  but  the  cricket's  sound, 

And  pensive  thoughts  o'er  my  heart-strings  creep 

As  the  "  unvoiced"  breezes  around  me  sweep. 

*T  is  a  tranquil  hour,  and  I  lazily  lie, 

Gazing  up  at  my  ease  on  the  delicate  sky, 

With  the  sombre  light  on  my  dim  page  playing, 

And  my  pen  through  its  numberless  labyrinths  straying. 

How  gentle  the  spell  of  this  exquisite  hour  ! 

How  soothing,  how  sweet  its  mysterious  power  ! 

It  steals  o'er  my  heart,  like  a  breeze  o'er  the  lake, 

Each  half-buried  accent  of  music  to  wake. 

The  kitten  beside  me  hath  fled  from  its  play, 

And  close  in  my  bosom  is  nestling  away ; 

And  the  trembling  leaf,  and  the  bending  flower, 

And  the  insect  millions  acknowledge  its  power. 

How  the  fancy  will  fly  from  the  present,  and  roam 

O'er  each  corner  of  earth  'neath  heaven's  high  dome  ! 

Perchance,  like  myself,  you  may  cloud-gazing  be  ; 

Perchance,  my  sweet  friend,  you  are  thinking  of  me, 

And  this  scene,  like  a  beautiful  image  of  rest, 

Has  awakened  the  same  delicate  chords  in  your  breast  ; 

And  perchance — how  provoking  ! — that  twinkling  lamp-night 

Hath  dissolved  with  its  brilliance  my  dreams  of  delight, 

Hath  deepen'd  to  blackness  the  mantle  of  gray, 

And  chased  all  my  beautiful  visions  away. 

So  it  is— they  have  fled — and  again  I  descend 

To  converse  upon  every-day  themes  with  my  friend  ; 

But  the  end  of  my  paper  convinces  me  still 

That  I  soon  must  release  thee,  my  trusty  goosequill ; 

Though  my  breast  and  my  head  are  yet  aching  to  write, 

I  must  bid  you,  dear  Hetty,  a  loving  good  night. 

If  your  ears  are  not  tired  of  the  jingling  of  rhyme. 

I  will  finish  my  musical  letter  next  time  ; 

In  the  meanwhile,  believe  me  sincerely  to  be 

Your  affectionate  scribbler, 

MAKGARET  M.  D. 
Ballston,  IR3R. 

LINES 

ON  SEEING  SOME  FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  TOMB  OF  VIRGIL. 

HAVE  these  gray  relics,  crumbling  into  dust, 
Once  rested  'neath  Italia's  burning  sky  ? 

Has  this  cold  remnant  of  what  once  was  stone 
Reflected  back  her  warm  cerulean  dye  ? 

H  ive  these  white  fragments  rested  o'er  the  sod 

Hallow'd  by  virgil's  ever-sacred  clay  ? 
And  have  they  mingled  with  the  grass-grown  mound 

Which  o'er  the  classic  hero's  bosom  lay  ? 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  213 

Perhaps  the  crumbling-  stones  beside  me  now 
Fell  from  the  mouldering1  marble  at  his  head — 

The  icy  tomb  which  hides  his  noble  brow, 
For  ever  hallow'd  by  the  mighty  dead. 

In  fancy  o'er  Italia's  fields  I  roam, 

In  fancy  view  the  poet's  lowly  grave, 
Round  which,  as  I  in  silent  sorrow  bend, 

The  flowering  myrtle  and  the  cypress  wave. 

1838.  [Unfinished.] 


A  SHORT  SKETCH 

OF   THF    MOST   IMPORTANT     IDEAS    CONTAINED    IN    COUSINS     "  INTRODUCTION 
TO    THE    HISTORY    OF    PHILOSOPHY." 

ACCOKDING  to  Cousin,  there  are  three  elements  of  consciousness, 
three  first  ideas  of  the  infinite,  the  finite  and  their  relations  succeeding 
each  other  in  the  above  order.  He  believes  that  as  the  history  of  an  in 
dividual  such  is  the  history  of  mankind  in  general;  that  as  there  are  three 
fundamental  ideas  there  must  be  three  epochs  of  the  world  to  develope 
those  ideas.  As  the  first  idea  is  that  of  the  infinite,  the  first  age  of  the 
world  will  express  this  idea  in  its  laws,  its  arts,  its  religion,  and  its  philo 
sophy  :  this  will  predominate.  When  fully  developed,  the  idea  of  the 
finite  will  succeed ;  action,  variety,  and  liberty  will  take  the  place  of 
slavery  and  immobility ;  man  will  begin  to  find  himself.  All  the  ele 
ments  of  his  nature  will  be  brought  into  action,  although  still  subjected 
to  the  predominating  principle.  When  this  is  exhausted,  in  its  turn  the 
idea  of  the  relations  between  the  finite  and  the  infinite  will  come  ;  man 
will  join  these  two  great  principles ;  every  element  will  assume  its  proper 
station  without  asserting  undue  authority  over  the  others ;  man  will  at 
once  generalize  and  particularize ;  and  as  this  is  the  highest  develope- 
ment  of  the  ideas  of  humanity,  this  epoch  will  be  the  last.  After  giving 
this  expansive  view  of  man  and  his  destination,  he  proceeds  to  show  that 
different  climates  and  countries  are  destined  for  the  development  of  dif 
ferent  ideas ;  that  the  idea  of  the  infinite  must  necessarily  prevail  in  a 
large  continent  surrounded  by  vast  seas,  traversed  by  inaccessible  moun 
tains,  and  divided  by  immense  deserts,  with  a  burning  and  enervating 
climate,  where  every  thing  leads  to  and  expresses  the  idea  of  the  vast, 
the  absolute,  the  infinite:  such  a  country  is  Asia.  On  the  contrary,  the 
idea  of  the  finite  will  occupy  a  smaller  country,  intersected  by  rivers 
affording  every  facility  of  inland  communication  and  commerce,  surround 
ed  by  small  seas,  inviting  the  inhabitants  to  intercourse  with  neighbouring 
nations,  and  filled  with  beautiful  and  diversified  scenery,  all  bearing  the 
impress  of  the  finite,  urging  to  action  and  enterprise,  and  devoid  of  that 
solemn  and  sombre  unity  of  expression  which  prevailed  in  its  parent 
epoch :  such  a  country  is  Greece.  That  position  of  the  world  destined 
for  the  developement  of  the  last  and  most  perfect  epoch,  must  unite  the 
two  great  external  features  of  the  former  countries,  as  it  is  to  assist  in 
expressing  the  two  great  ideas  in  perfect  unison  with  each  other.  It  must 
combine  the  sublime  with  the  beautiful,  every  advantage  of  internal  com 
merce  and  high  civilization  with  a  manifest  appearance  of  magnitude  and 
duration  ;  it  must  possess  a  perfect  and  minute  individuality  with  a  great 
and  striking  general  character ;  a  vast  continent  surrounded  with  vast 
oceans,  containing  mighty  rivers  and  inland  seas,  broad  prairies,  and  long 
18 


214  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

ranges  of  mountains,  together  with  fertile  valleys  and  streams,  and  all 
the  minor  qualities  of  a  rich  and  magnificent  country,  containing  facilities 
for  the  minutest  internal  improvements,  guided  and  governed  by  a  lofty 
and  abstract  spirit  of  generalization — thus  uniting  the  relative  and  the  ab 
solute,  the  finite  and  the  infinite  !  such  a  country  is  America.  He  then 
proceeds  to  speak  of  war,  its  causes,  and  its  effects.  He  considers  it  not 
only  beneficial  but  necessary.  War  is  a  combat  of  ideas.  Underneath 
the  great  and  prominent  idea  of  an  epoch  there  exist  minor  elements  in 
a  nation,  as  in  an  individual :  one  people  expresses  one  element,  one 
idea ;  another  seizes  upon  and  developes  a  second :  these  truths  elevate 
themselves  against  each  other  and  combat — hence  war.  When  one  of 
these  ideas  is  exhausted,  it  is  opposed  and  superseded  by  a  newer  and  a 
better  one — hence  conquest.  One  idea  and  one  nation  make  room  for 
another  idea  and  another  nation ;  one  epoch  is  destroyed,  and  another 
arises.  Mark  the  benefits  of  war :  had  it  never  existed  there  had  been 
but  one  era  of  the  world,  and  humanity  could  never  have  progressed. 
He  then  proceeds  to  justify  conquests.  He  considers  that  the  event 
proves  the  right ;  that  when  a  newer  and  nobler  spirit  rises  against  an 
exhausted  one,  that  spirit  must  conquer,  and  ought  to  conquer.  He  does 
not  believe  in  absolute  error ;  he  believes  every  error  is  a  part  of  truth, 
and  raised  to  an  undeserved  superiority  among  the  elements  of  humanity. 
1838.  [Unfinished.] 


BRIEF  NOTES  FROM  COUSIN'S  PHILOSOPHY, 

MADE  DURING  THE  WINTER  OF  1838. 

His  first  position  is  this :  as  soon  as  man  receives  consciousness  he  is 
surrounded  by  objects  in  a  world  hostile  to  himself,  but  by  exertion  and 
developement  of  his  power,  he  has  conquered  and  modified  matter,  and 
has,  as  it  were,  impressed  with  his  image  and  rendered^  subservient  to 
his  will.  The  first  man  who  overcame  any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his 
desires  created  industry,  and  the  first  who  measured  the  slightest  space 
around  him  or  united  the  objects  before  him,  introduced  the  science  of 
mathematics.  All  these,  mathematics,  physics,  and  political  economy, 
have  one  object,  utility  or  the  useful;  but  there  are  other  relations  in 
which  men  stand  to  each  other,  besides  those  of  hurtful  or  useful,  the 
just  and  the  unjust.  Upon  the  idea  of  the  useful,  man  altered  the  ex 
ternal  appearance  of  nature ;  upon  the  idea  of  justice  he  created  a  new 
society,  maintaining  their  own  rights,  and  respecting  the  rights  of  others. 
But  man  goes  further  :  besides  the  hurtful  or  the  useful,  the  just  or  the 
unjust,  he  has  inherent  in  his  nature  the  idea  of  the  beautiful  and  its 
opposite.  Impressed  with  this  idea,  man  seizes,  developes,  and  purifies 
it  in  his  thought,  until  he  finds  that  thought  superior  to  the  object  which 
presented  it.  Every  thing  that  is  beautilul  in  nature  is  also  imperfect, 
and  fades  when  compared  with  the  idea  it  awakens.  Thus,  man  not 
only  reforms  nature  and  society  by  industry  and  the  laws  of  justice,  but 
also  remodels  those  objects  which  present  to  him  the  idea  of  beauty,  and 
renders  them  more  beautifnl  than  ever.  But  man  is  not  yet  satisfied — he 
looks  beyond  the  world  of  industry  and  arts,  and  conceives  God.  The 
idea  of  God  as  separate  from  the  world,  but  scarcely  himself  in  it,  is 
natural  religion  ;  but  he  does  not  rest  there;  he  creates  another  world, 
iti  which  he  perceives  nothing  but  its  relation  to  God,  the  world  of  ' 
he  expands  and  elevates  the  sentiment  of  religion.  Philosophy  succeeds. 
Philosophy  is  the  developement  of  thought ;  it  may  be  good  or  bad,  but 
in  itself  it  is  demanded  by  the  mind  as  much  as  religion,  the  sciences, 
&LC.  Cousin  proves  this  position  by  a  rapid  examination  of  the  want* 
of  man  ******** 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  215 


LENORE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

WHY  should  I  sing  ?    The  scenes  which  roused 
The  bards  of  old,  arouse  no  more  ; 

The  reign  of  poesy  halh  pass'd, 
And  all  her  glowing  dreams  are  o'er ! 

Why  should  I  sing  ?     A  thousand  harps 
Have  touch'd  the  self-same  chords  before 

Of  love,   and  hate,  and  lofty  pride, 
And  fields  of  battle  bathed  in  gore ! 

Why  should  /  seek  the  burning  fount 

From  whence  their  glowing  fancies  sprung  ? 

My  feeble  muse  can  only  sing 

What  other,  nobler  bards  have  sung . 

Thus  did  I  breathe  my  sad  complaint, 

As,  bending  o'er  my  silent  lyre, 
I  sigh'd  for  some  romantic  theme 

Its  slumbering  music  to  inspire. 

Scarce  had  I  spoke,  when  o'er  my  soul 

A  low  reproving  whisper  came ; 
My  heart  instinctive  shrank  with  awe, 

And  conscience  tinged  my  cheek  with  shame, 

"  Down  with  thy  vain  repining  thoughts, 
Nor  dare  to  breatne  those  thoughts  again, 

Or  endless  sleep  shall  bind  thy  lyre, 
And  scorn  repel  thy  bursting  strain ! 

44  What  though  a  thousand  bards  have  sung 
The  charms  of  earth,  of  air,  or  sky  ! 

A  thousand  minstrels,  old  and  young, 
Pour'd  forth  their  varied  melody  ! 

"  What  though,  inspired,  they  stoop'd  to  drink 
At  Fancy's  fountain  o'er  and  o'er! 

Say,  feeble  warbler,  dost  thou  think 
The  glowing  streamlet  flows  no  more  ? 

"  Because  a  nobler  hand  has  cull'd 

The  loveliest  of  our  earthly  flowers, 
Dost  thou  believe  that  all  of  bloom 
Hath  fled  those  bright,  poetic  bowers  . 

"  Know  then,  that  long  as  earth  shall  roll. 

Revolving  'neath  yon  azure  sky, 
Music  shall  charm  each  purer  soul, 

And  Fancy's  fount  shall  never  dry  ! 


216  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

*'  Long1  as  the  rolling  seasons  change, 
And  nature  holds  her  empire  here ; 

Long  as  the  human  eye  can  range 

O'er  yon  pure  heaven's  expanded  sphere ; 

"  Long  as  the  ocean's  broad  expanse 
Lies  spread  beneath  yon  broader  sky ; 

Long  as  the  playful  moonbeams  dance, 
Like  fairy  forms,  on  billows  high ; 

"So  long,  unbound  by  mortal  chain, 
Shall  genius  spread  her  soaring  wing 

So  long  the  pure  poetic  fount, 

Uncheck'd,  unfetter'd,  on  shall  spring. 

"  Thou  say'st  the  days  of  song  have  past, 
The  glowing  days  of  wild  romance, 

When  war  pour'd  out  his  clarion  blast, 
And  valour  bow'd  at  beauty's  glance  ! 

"  When  every  hour  that  onward  sped, 
Was  fraught  with  some  bewildering  tale , 

When  superstition's  shadowy  hand 
O'er  trembling  nations  cast  her  veil ! 

"  Thou  say'st  that  life's  unvaried  stream 
In  peaceful  ripples  wears  away ; 

And  years  produce  no  fitting  theme 
To  rouse  the  poet's  slumbering  lay. 

"  Not  so,  while  yet  the  hand  of  God 
Each  year  adorns  his  teeming  earth  ; 

While  dew-drops  deck  the  verdant  sod, 

And  birds,  and  bees,  and  flowers  have  birtb i 

"  While  every  day  unfolds  anew 

Some  charm  to  meet  the  searching  eye  ; 

While  buds  of  every  varying  hue 
Are  bursting  'neath  a  summer  sky. 

"'Tis  true  that  war's  unsparing  hand 
Hath  ceased  to  bathe  our  fields  in  gore; 

That  hate  hath  quench'd  his  burning  brandt 
And  tyrant  princes  reign  no  more. 

"  But  dost  thou  think  that  scenes  like  these 

Form  all  the  poetry  of  life  ? 
Would  thy  untutor'd  muse  delight 

In  scenes  of  rapine,  blood,  and  strife  ? 

«  No — there  are  boundless  fields  of  thought, 
Where  roving  spirits  never  soar'd ;  • 

Which  wildest  fancy  never  sought, 
Or  boldest  intellect  explored  ! 

"  Then  bow  not  silent  o'er  thy  lyre, 
But  tune  its  chords  to  nature's  praise  ; 

At  every  turn  thine  eye  shall  meet 
Fit  themes  to  form  a  poet's  lays. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  21 

"  Go  forth,-  prepared  her  sweetest  smiles 

In  all  her  loveliest  scenes  to  view ; 
Nor  deem,  though  others  there  have  knelt, 

Thou  may'st  not  weave  thy  garland  too  !" 
It  paused — I  felt  how  true  the  words, 

How  sweet  the  comfort  they  convey'd ; 
I  chased  my  mourning  thoughts  away — 

I  heard — I  trusted — I  obey'd. 

DEDICATION. 

TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MY  SISTER  LUCRETIA. 

OH  thou,  so  early  lost,  so  long  deplored! 

Pure  spirit  of  my  sister,  be  thou  near ! 
And  while  I  touch  this  hallow'd  harp  of  thine, 

Bend  from  the  skies,  sweet  sister,  bend  and  hear ! 
For  thee  I  pour  this  unaffected  lay, 

To  thee  these  simple  numbers  all  belong; 
For  though  thine  earthly  form  hath  pass'd  away, 

Thy  memory  still  inspires  my  childish  song. 
Then  take  this  feeble  tribute !  'tis  thine  own — 

Thy  fingers  sweep  my  trembling  heartstrings  o'er, 
Arouse  to  harmony  each  buried  tone, 

And  bid  its  waken'd  music  sleep  no  more ! 
Long  hath  thy  voice  been  silent,  and  thy  lyre 

Hung  o'er  thy  grave  in  death's  unbroken  rest 
But  when  its  last  sweet  tones  were  borne  away, 

One  answering  echo  linger'd  in  my  breast. 
Oh  thou  pure  spirit !  if  thou  hoverest  near, 

Accept  these  lines,  unworthy  though  they  be, 
Faint  echoes  from  thy  fount  of  song  divine, 

By  thee  inspired,  and  dedicate  to  thee! 

CANTO  FIRST. 

'TWAS  nightfall  on  the  Rhine !  the  day 
In  pensive  glory  stole  away, 
Flinging  his  last  and  brightest  glow 
Full  on  the  restless  waves  below, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  dyed 
With  hues  from  heaven  the  sparkling  tide1 
The  fleeting  ray  an  instant  beam'd, — 
O'er  hill  and  vale  and  rock  it  stream'd, 
Till  the  dark,  time-defying  cliff, 
Seem'd  glowing,  melting  into  life — 
Then  swiftly  fading,  glided  o'er, 
And  left  it  lonelier  than  before. 
The  distant  hills  of  sombre  blue, 
Tinged  with  that  rich  and  varying  hue, 
Now  darker  and  more  mingled  grew ; 
The  Rhine,  enrobed  in  shadows  gray, 
18* 


218  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

RolPd  on  its  giant  path. 
Lashing  the  rocks  which  barr'd  its  way, 
Now  curling  graceful,  as  in  play, 

Now  roaring  as  in  wrath  ! 
While  trembling  in  the  tinted  west, 
The  fair  moon  rear'd  her  silver  crest, 
And  fleecy  clouds,  as  snow-wreaths  pale, 
Twined  on  her  brow  their  graceful  veil ; 
And  one  by  one,  with  tiny  flame, 
Night's  heavenly  tapers  softly  came, 
And  toward  their  mistress  trembling  stole, 
Like  pleasing  memories  o'er  the  soul. 
And  shade  by  shade  her  brilliance  grew, 
As  past  away  the  sunset  hue, 
Till  o'er  the  heaving  Rhine  she  stood, 
Bathing  in  light  its  sleeping  flood  ; 
Pouring  her  full  and  melting  ray 
Where  rock  and  hill  and  forest  lay, 
And  where,  in  clust'ring  trees  embower'd, 
An  ancient  castle  proudly  tower'd  : 
O'er  the  gray  walls  her  glances  play'd, 
O'er  drawbridge,  rnoat,  and  tower  they  strayM, 
As  striving  with  that  holy  light 
To  pierce  the  works  of  earthly  might, 
And  cast  one  heavenly  beam  within 
The  abode  of  human  toil  and  sin. 
Can  sin  and  sorrow  and  despair 
Be  frowning  'neath  a  sky  so  fair  ? 
Can  nature  sleep  while  tempests  roll 
Impetuous  o'er  the  tortured  soul  ? 
Mark  yonder  taper,  dimly  beaming, 
From  the  lone  turret  faintly  streaming 
Casting  athwart  the  brow  of  night 
Its  wavering  and  uncertain  light ! 
Beside  that  torch  sit  guilt  and  care 
And  dark  remorse,  and  coward  fear ; 
And  fever'd  thought  is  borrowing  there 
The  haggard  visage  of  despair  ! 
There,  with  his  aged  fingers  prest 
In  clasp  convulsive  to  his  breast, 
Bows,  as  with  secret  guilt  and  pain, 
The  master  of  this  broad  domain. 
His  ample  robes  around  him  stray, 
His  locks  are  deeply  tinged  with  gray, 
And  his  dark,  low'ring  brow  is  fraught 
With  marks  of  avarice  and  thought. 
At  every  sound  which  meets  his  ear, 
He  starts  instinctive  as  with  fear, 
And  his  keen  eye  roams  here  and  there 
With  anxious  and  expectant  air. 
His  seem'd  a  mind  of  timid  mould, 
Sway'd  by  some  spirit,  fierce  and  bold, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  219 

Which  lean'd  to  virtue,  but  could  yield 

When  vice  to  avarice  appeal'd — 

Which  gazed  on  crime  with  shrinking  eye, 

But  was  too  cowardly  to  fly. 

He  started — heard,  with  troubled  air 

A  tread  upon  the  turret  stair; 

Wiped  from  his  brow  the  gathering  dew, 

And  closer  still  his  mantle  drew, 

When  wide  the  massive  portal  flew  ! 

As  wondering  at  this  entrance  rude, 

The  aged  host  in  silence  stood  ; 

While  with  a  stern  unchanging  look, 

The  stranger  doffd  his  ample  cloak, 

Unloosed  his  bonnet's  clasping  band, 

And  toward  the  baron  stretch'd  his  hand. 

His  host  the  friendly  gesture  saw, 

But  shrank  in  hatred  or  in  awe — 

Then  starting,  as  with  eager  haste, 

The  proffer'd  hand  he  warmly  prest,  ^ 

And  smiled  a  welcome  to  his  guest. 

The  latter  mark'd,  with  flashing  glance, 

That  shrinking  fear,  this  mean  pretence 

And  then  resumed  the  smile  of  scorn 

His  curling  lip  had  lately  worn. 

Uninjured  by  the  frosts  of  time, 

He  seem'd  advanced  in  manhood's  prime  ; 

His  form  was  tall,  his  mien  erect, 

His  locks,  though  matted  by  neglect, 

Curl'd  closely  round  his  swarthy  brow 

While  his  dark  orbits  flashed  below. 

Mature,  with  fingers  firm  and  bold, 

Had  made  a  form  of  finest  mould, 

And  painted  on  his  childish  face 

The  outline  of  each  manly  grace; 

But  pride  and  art,  those  imps  of  sin, 

Had  crept  the  empty  shrine  within  ; 

Had  taught  his  heart  each  serpent  wile, 

And  lent  his  lip  its  fiendish  smile. 

His  brow  was  knit  with  thought  and  care, 

And  dark  design  was  scowling  there  ; 

His  glance  inspired  both  hate  arid  fear — 

Now  withering  with  its  biting  sneer, 

Now  flashing  like  the  mid-day  sun, 

Which  scorches  all  it  looks  upon. 

Boldness  and  artifice  combined 

To  form  the  dark,  perverted  mind, 

Within  that  goodly  frame  enshrined  ; 

And  he,  whose  steps  in  early  youth 

Some  kindly  hand  had  led  to  truth, 

With  active  brain,  and  heart  that  burn'd, 

From  that  unpointed  pathway  turn'd, 

Unwarn'd,  unguided,  plunged  within 

The  blackening  gulf  of  shame  and  sin. 


220  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON.  , 

On  his  dark  face  the  baron's  eye 
Gazed  anxious  and  inquiringly, 
And  when  he  mark'd  his  silent  guest 
Draw  forth  a  casket  from  the  vest 
Which  folded  loosely  on  his  breast, 
With  half-conceal'd,  convulsive  gasp, 
He  stretch'd  his  eager  hand  to  clasp 
The  sparkling  treasure  in  his  grasp. 
But  with  a  smile,  more  full  than  speech, 
The  stranger  drew  it  from  his  reach ; 
On  the  rude  bench  the  casket  laid, 
Beside  his  dagger's  glittering  blade ; 
Drew  near  his  host,  who  quaked  with  dread, 
And  thus,  in  low,  stern  accents  said  : 
"  Thou  deemest  right — that  gem  doth  hold 
A  something  dearer  far  than  gold  ; 
To  thee,  more  precious  than  thy  life, 
To  me,  the  cause  of  toil  and  strife ! 
•        'T  is  that,  which  in  another's  hands, 

Would  tear  thee  from  these  goodly  lands, 

Send  thee  and  thy  fair  daughter  forth 

From  all  thou  thinkest  life  is  worth, 

From  titles,  honours,  lands,  and  hall, 

And  to  young  Erstein  yield  them  all, 

Which  in  thine  own  will  banish  fear, 

And  make  thee  lord  and  master  here, 

Unchallenged  by  the  rightful  heir : 

(Then  in  a  low,  impressive  lone,) 

But  hold, — that  prize  is  still  mine  own .'" 

"  Villain  !" — "  Nay,  curb  that  wrath  of  thine— 

Hast  thou  forgot  one  word  of  mine 

Could  hurl  thee  from  thy  high  estate, 

To  beggar'd  infamy  and  hate  ? 

Could  I  not  rend  the  shrouding  veil, 

And  tell  the  wondering  world  the  tale ; 

How  when  thy  kinsman  died  in  Spain, 

Thou  seized  upon  his  fair  domain, 

His  titles,  and  his  wealth ;  despite 

His  heir,  the  youthful  Erstein's  right  ? 

Could  I  not  tell,  how  many  a  year, 

With  artful  wile  and  coward  fear, 

Thou  sought'st  with  vain  and  mean  pretence 

These  proofs  of  his  inheritance, 

That  thou  might'st  thus  for  aye  destroy 

The  claims  of  this  romantic  boy  ? 

Think'st  thou  I  will  this  power  forego, 

Another's  lands  on  thee  bestow, 

The  rightful  heir  for  thee  despoil, 

And  gain  but  hatred,  fear  and  toil  ? 

"Speak  not,  old  man!  By  heaven!  I  swear, 

Yon  casket  and  its  contents  there 

Were  not  more  safe  from  grasp  of  thinfj, 

Though  buried  in  the  heaving  Rhine, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  221 

If  tliou  grant  not,  unquestion'd,  free, 
The  guerdon  I  shall  claim  of  thee !" 
Ask  aught,"  the  baron  faltering  cried ; 
"  Leave  me  my  gold  !  take  aught  beside  !" 
The  stranger  knit  his  swarthy  brow, 
"  Old  dotard  !  yes,  thy  gold  and  thou  ! 
Swear  by  the  God  whom  thou  dost  fear, 
Swear  by  that  gold  thou  dost  revere, 
My  suit  is  granted  !"  and  his  eye 
Flash'd  on  the  baron  fearfully. 
"  Herman,  I  swear  !"  he  mutter'd  low, 
And  the  blood  left  his  cheek  and  brow ; 
Scarce  said  he,  ere  his  fearful  guest 
The  casket's  jewell'd  lock  had  press'd, 
And  from  its  case  of  richest  mould, 
Drawn  forth  a  written  parchment  fold, 
With  eager  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes, 
The  aged  baron  seized  the  prize, 
Tore  it  in  haste,  and  opening  wide 
The  vine-wreath'd  lattice  at  his  side, 
With  fix'd,  exulting  gaze,  consign'd 
Its  fragments  to  the  midnight  wind. 

That  scene  and  act,  that  form  and  face, 
A  painter's  hand  had  loved  to  trace : 
The  moon,  as  if  the  scene  to  shroud, 
Had  sought  the  bosom  of  a  cloud; 
The  murmuring  waves,  the  rustling  trees, 
The  fitful  sighing  of  the  breeze, 
And  the  hoarse  owlet's  distant  tone, 
Blent  in  one  soft  and  wailing  moan, 
Disturbed  that  midnight  calm  alone. 

His  brow  with  burning  drops  bedew'd, 

The  old  man  at  his  lattice  stood, 

And  scann'd  with  sparkling,  lingering  eye. 

Each  fragment  as  it  floated  by ; 

And  Herman  mark'd  his  host  the  while 

With  sneering  and  contemptuous  smile  : 

At  length,  with  mien  of  joyous  pride, 

The  baron  hasten'd  to  his  side, 

And  thus  in  tones  of  triumph  cried : 

"  Now  have  they  perish'd  !  all  that  might 

Prove  to  the  world  young  Erstein's  right ! 

His  claim  is  as  it  ne'er  had  been, 

And  these  broad  lands  are  mine  again ! 

When  first  by  youthful  pride  impell'd, 

This  princely  barony  I  held, 

I  knew  my  kinsman  lived,  and  knew 

These  fatal  proofs  existed  too; 

But  all  my  cunning  found  not  where. 

Thus  lived  I  years,  in  doubt  and  care, 

In  trembling  terror,  lest  my  name 

Some  evil  chance  should  brand  with  shame ; 


222  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Or  more,  lest  all  my  hoarded  gold 
Should  vanish  from  my  loosening  hold. 
**  Blest  be  the  day,  good  Herman,  when 
Thou  earnest  from  thy  mountain  den, 
And  said  that  thou  thyself  had  known 
The  secret  which  I  deem'd  mine  own ; 
Despair  and  anguish  made  me  dumb ; 
I  thought  the  fatal  hour  had  come. 
O'erwhelm'd  in  grief  I  little  knew 
Thy  heart,  so  noble  and  so  true, 
Nor  thought  the  object  of  my  fears, 
Could  crown  the  fruitless  search  of  years  J 
But  knows  young  Erstein  of  his  claim 
To  Arnheim's  barony  and  name  ? 
Will  he  behold  his  goodly  lands 
Seized  by  a  stranger's  trembling-'hands?" 

"  He  knows  it  not;  romantic,  gay, 
To  distant  lands  he  roam'd  away, 
And  sought  adventure  and  renown 
In  nobler  countries  than  his  own. 
One  month  return'd  from  foreign  war, 
He  lives  within  his  lonely  tower; 
Scouring  the  forest  far  and  near, 
And  hunting  down  the  antler'd  deer ; 
But  should  he  search  the  written  past, 
And  learn  this  fatal  truth  at  last, 
His  heart  and  arm  are  strong  to  fight 
In  brave  defending  of  his  right." 

"  Ay,  should  he  so,  good  Herman !" — Now 
A  livid  paleness  robed  his  brow  j 
But  quick  returning  crimson  spread, 
While  thus  his  dark  accomplice  said : 
And  canst  thou  not  the  path  descry  ? 
Why  then,  good  baron,  he  must  die  ; 
This  barrier  in  thy  way  /  hate, 
And  dark  and  wild  shall  be  his  fate. 
He  scorn'd  me,  and  I  vow'd  to  seal 
My  vengeance  on  this  faithful  steel, 
And  happy  shall  that  moment  be 
Which  bows  his  lofty  crest  to  me. 
But  night  wears  on — I  must  away — 
Thou  hast  the  casket's  price  to  pay." 

The  old  man  raised  his  troubled  eye, 

As  longing,  fearing  to  reply, 

Then  slowly  gasp'd,  with  effort  bold, 

"  Ay,  ay,  what  wouldst  thou,  land  or  gold  ?'• 

"  Thou  hast  a  beauteous  daughter — she 

The  guerdon  of  my  toil  must  be ! 

Her  hand  must  be  unite  with  mine 

Before  another  sun  decline 

On  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Rhine  !M 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  223 

With  smother'd  shriek  and  heaving  breast 

The  lather  knelt  belbre  his  guest. 

"  My  child  !  my  own  Lenore  !  thy  bride  ! — 

Ask  aught,  ask  every  thing  beside. 

The  dews  which  wet  the  summer  flower 

Are  not  more  sinless  than  Lenore! 

Through  years  of  guilt  and  care,  my  child 

Cheer'd  my  soul's  darkness  till  it  smiled  ! 

Now  that  my  locks  are  turned  to  gray 

Thou  canst  not  tear  that  child  away  ! — 

Her  gentle  purity  hath  been 

A  star  on  life's  beclouded  scene, 

Music  her  voice,  and  heaven  her  eye, — 

Oh  leave  her,  leave  her,  or  I  die !" 

With  kindling  glances  Herman  heard 

Each  smother'd  groan,  each  anguish'd  word, 

And  then  replied  in  tones  of  scorn, 

"  Up  from  thy  knees !  hast  thou  not  sworn 

To  grant  my  suit  ?  dost  thou  forget 

Thine  all  is  in  my  clutches  yet? 

I  swear  that  she,  and  only  she, 
Shall  buy  my  bond  of  secresy  !" 

II  Forget !  why  can  I  not  forget  ? — 
Would  we  had  never,  never  met! 

Leave  me,  for  God's  sake,  leave  me  now  !— 

Oh  my  torn  heart,  my  burning  brow  !" 

*'Say  thou  wilt  make  thy  daughter  mine 

Before  another  sun  decline, 

And  I  depart  to  come  no  more, 

Until  that  joyous  bridal  hour  !" 

"  Wretch  !  fiend  !  I  will !"— The  accents  hung 

As  loth  to  leave  his  faltering  tongue; 

But  ere  had  ceased  that  lingering  tone, 

He  turn'd  and  found  himself  alone. 

The  taper's  waving  glimmer  fell 

On  the  rude  pavement  of  the  cell, 

Where  with  his  trembling  fingers  prest 

Upon  his  heaving,  labouring  breast, 

With  air  distracted,  yet  subdued, 

That  wretched,  erring  parent  stood. 

His  eye  was  fix'd,  and  bent  his  ear, 

His  guest's  retiring  steps  to  hear, 

Though  like  a  quick  and  piercing  dart, 

Each  sent  a  quivering  through  his  heart ; 

When  first  that  wild  vibration  ceased, 

The  floor  with  rapid  steps  he  paced ; 

And  thoughts  of  agonizing  pain 

Flitted  like  wild-fire  through  his  brain. 

How  should  he  give  his  child,  his  pride, 
To  be  a  branded  outlaw's  bride  ? 
How  could  her  purity  have  part 
In  Herman's  cold,  perverted  heart  ?— 


224  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Then  rush'd  back  memories  of  youth, 

When  earth  was  heaven,  and  man  was  truth. 

And  her  he  loved,  too  pure  for  life, 

Too  gentle  for  its  toil  and  strife, 

She,  who,  unheeding  slander's  tongue, 

Still  to  her  lord  had  fondly  clung  — 

Her,  he  had  dared  to  scorn,  deride, 

Her,  who  had  suffer'd,  wept,  and  died  I 

While  o'er  his  mind  these  memories  stole, 

He  groan'd  in  agony  of  soul, 

"  My  child  !  no — never  shalt  thou  be 

Heir  to  thy  mother's  misery  1 

These  aged  eyes  had  rather  weep 

O'er  thy  dark  bed  of  endless  sleep." 

Then  o'er  these  better  feelings  came 

The  ghosts  of  penury  and  shame ; 

He  saw  his  gold  another's  prey, 

His  lands,  his  titles  torn  away, 

Himself  the  theme  of  public  scorn, 

His  daughter  friendless  and  forlorn, 

And  then  he  whisper'd,  "  I  have  sworn  1" 

But  why  this  picture  longer  view? 

Or  why  this  painful  theme  pursue  ? 

Oh!  rather  let  us  weep  that  he 

Who  might  allied  to  angels  be 

Will  sully  thus  the  spark  divine, 

Imprison'd  in  its  earthly  shrine, 

And  in  compassion  drop  the  veil 

O'er  this  sad  portion  of  our  tale. 

Now  let  us  seek  the  lonely  bower 

Where  at  this  silent  midnight  hour. 

So  sweetly  sleeps  the  fair  Lenore. 

A  silver  lamp,  with  flickering  beam, 

Now  dies,  now  starts  with  sudden  gleam, 

DifTusing  o'er  the  vaulted  room 

Or  wavering  light,  or  partial  gloom 

Near,  on  the  oaken  table,  lie 

Her  crucifix  and  rosary, 

And  the  small  lute,  whose  golden  string 

Hath  echoed  to  her  evening  hymn. 

Her  head  is  resting  on  her  hand, 

Her  hair,  escaping  from  its  band, 

Falls  in  rich  masses  on  her  neck, 

Her  fair  white  brow,  and  flushing  cheek , 

The  long,  dark  lashes  of  her  eye 

On  their  fair  pillow  trembling  lie, 

Her  lips  half  part,  and  you  can  trace 

A  smile  of  pleasure  on  her  face. 

She  dreams — her  soul  hath  pass'd  away, 

Far  from  its  lovely  shrine  of  clay, 

Scenes  of  enjoyment  to  explore, 

Where  waking  fancies  dare  not  soar. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  225 

She  dreams — what  soft,  subduing  thought 

Hath  her  unfetter'd  spirit  caught  ? 

She  whispers  "  Erstein  !"— ah  !  sweet  one, 

Thou  know'st  not  what  this  hour  hath  done ! 

What  cloud  hath  dimm'd  thy  fortune's  star, 

And  his  thou  lovest  dearer  far ! 

Dream  on !  for  thou  wilt  wake  to  weep, 

When  morn  dispels  that  balmy  sleep, 

And  in  thy  pilgrimage  'of  pain 

Thou  ne'er  may'st  dream  so  sweet  again. 

Hark !  't  is  the  night-breeze,  as  it  twines 

Round  the  tall  lattice,  wreath'd  with  vines. 

Again  !  arouse  thee,  sweet  Lenore, 

A  step  is  in  the  corridor. 

It  pass'd  along  the  echoing  floor, 

And  paused  beside  the  maiden's  door, 

And  from  beneath,  a  brilliant  stream' 

Of  wavering  light  was  seen  to  gleam. 

The  door  unclosed — the  torch's  fire 

Reyeal'd  its  bearer — 't  was  her  sire ! 

With  trembling  hand  he  strove  to  shade 

The  beams  which  through  the  apartment  stray'd, 

And  o'er  the  placid  sleeper  play'd ; 

Then  to  her  side  he  softly  came, 

And  moved  the  shadow  from  its  flame. 

She  woke — her  night-robe  closer  drew, 
A  hurried  glance  around  her  threw; 
Then,  with  a  troubled,  anxious  gaze, 
She  scann'd  each  feature  of  his  face. 
u  Why  come  at  midnight  to  thy  child, 
With  cheek  so  pale,  and  eye  so  wild  ?" 
"  My  daughter,  rise  ! — thou  need'st  not  fear, 
But  /must  speak,  and  thou  must  hear." 

Then  gave  he  to  her  listening  ears 
A  tale  of  doubts  and  cares  and  fears; 
Of  future  wretchedness  and  pain, 
Of  threaten'd  penury  and  disdain, 
An  exile  from  their  native  hearth, 
And  how  a  generous  friend  stepp'd  forth, 
Turn'd  from  their  heads  this  direful  fate, 
And  freely  ransom'd  his  estate. 

And  how,  in  an  unguarded  hour, 
When  gratitude  alone  had  power, 
He  swore  by  every  sacred  name 
To  grant  whatever  he  might  claim ; 
How,  while  he  listen'd  in  despair, 
Did  Herman  claim  his  daughter  fair ; 
And  he  was  bound,  by  all  that 's  dear, 
That  solemn  promise  to  revere ; 
And  then,  with  tears  and  sighs  he  said, 
"  If  thou  dost  love  this  aged  head, 
19 


MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Preserve  my  wealth,  my  peace,  my  life, 

And  be  my  kind  preserver's  wife." 

With  cheeks  and  brow  as  snow-wreath  pale 

His  daughter  heard  this  fearful  tale. 

So  suddenly  that  dread  blow  came, 

It  struck  like  palsy  on  her  frame. 

Through  her  veins  crept  an  icy  chill, 

As  if  her  very  heart  stood  still, 

And  nought  was  heard  the  calm  to  break, 

When  her  old  sire  had  ceased  to  speak  ; 

But  though  her  fix'd  and  glaring  eye 

No  outward  object  could  descry, 

Before  her  spirit's  glance,  a  throng 

Of  vivid  pictures  swept  along. 

She  saw  the  shaded  bower,  the  grove 

Where  first  young  Erstein  "  whisper'd  love  ;w 

She  saw  his  dark,  reproachful  eye 

Upraised  to  hers  in  agony; 

And  then  a  sterner  vision  came 

Of  him  her  fancy  dared  not  name. 

She  saw  his  tall  and  muffled  form, 

She  saw  his  withering  smile  of  scorn, 

She  saw — "  Lenore  !" — her  father  spoke — 

The  spell  which  bound  her  tongue  was  broke 

She  knelt  his  bending  form  beside, 

And  thus  in  faltering  accents  cried : 

"  My  father !  canst  thou  doom  so  sore 

A  trial  to  thine  own  Lenore? 

Is  there  no  spot  of  refuge  still  ? 

Is  poverty  so  great  an  ill? 

To  pomp  and  wealth  thy  heart  is  cold — 

Yield  up  to  him  thy  hoarded  gold ! 

What  carest  thou  for  state  or  pride, 

If  /  am  ever  by  thy  side  ? 

Give  him  thine  all,  and  let  us  go 

Far  from  this  darkest,  deadliest  foe! 

Thou  sha.lt  have  peace,  and  I  will  be 

A  more  than  comforter  to  thee !" 

"  My  child,  I  cannot  change  thy  lot — 

Thou  speakest  of  thou  know'st  not  what ! 

How  wouldst  thou  hear  thy  father's  name, 

Branded  with  infamy  and  shame?" 

To  his  dark  mantle  she  had  clung, 

Now  to  her  feet  she  swiftly  sprung ! 

A  tear  had  trembled  in  her  eye, 

But  now  she  dash'd  it  firmly  by  ; 

Her  cheek  had  blanch'd  with  fear  before, 

But  now  that  paleness  was  no  more  ! 

With  form  erect,  and  glance  of  fire, 

She  gazed  upon  her  cowering  sire, 

As  though  her  piercing  eye  could  see 

His  heart's  remotest  secresy. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

A  dark  and  dread  suspicion  stole 

Like  burning  lava  o'er  her  soul. 

"  Why  is  that  fear  upon  his  face  ? 

Why  should  my  father  dread  disgrace? 

He,  I  had  thought,  no  shame  could  dim, 

Why,  why  should  shame  descend  on  him  ? 

What  is  this  mystery,  and  how 

Can  I  avert  this  dreaded  blow  ? 

I  know  not,  and  because  mine  eye 

May  not  the  source  of  ill  descry, 

Shall  I  the  power  of  good  forego, 

And  plunge  him  into  deeper  woe  ?" 

Her  pure  affection  answer'd  "  No  !" 

If  he  were  noble,  as  she  deem'd, 

The  path  of  right  most  open  seem'd, 

To  chase  each  shadow  from  Ida  eyes, 

E'en  at  this  fearful  sacrifice  ; 

If  he  deserved  the  meed  of  shame, 

Was  not  that  pathway  still  the  same  ? 

A  moment's  calm  was  in  her  brain, 

She  dared  not  pause  for  thought  again, 

But  springing  to  her  father's  side, 

She  whisper'd,  "  I  will  be  his  bride  !" 

She  heeded  not  his  fond  caressing, 

She  heeded  not  his  parting  blessing — 

The  die  was  cast ! — and  there  she  bent, 

Fix'd  as  a  marble  monument, 

Nought  but  her  quick  and  gasping  breath 

Revealing  there  was  life  beneath. 

Her  father  left  that  fatal  spot — 

She  was  alone,  yet  knew  it  not, 

Till  his  quick  footstep  as  it  pass'd, 

Dissolved  the  fearful  charm  at  last, 

And  sent  a  wild  and  burning  glow 

Through  the  full  arteries  of  her  brow ; 

Then  came  affliction's  sweet  relief, 

Weeping,  soft  child  of  stern-eyed  grief, 

That  lulls  the  passions  into  rest, 

And  soothes  the  mourner's  tortured  breast. 

When  the  first  agony  was  past 

Her  gushing  tears  flow'd  long  and  fast, 

And  with  thanksgiving  fervent,  deep, 

She  own'd  the  privilege  to  weep. 

Alas !  frail  flower  !  her  life  had  been 

One  bright,  unchanging,  tranquil  scene ; 

Loving  and  loved,  as  wild  bird  gay, 

Her  frolic  childhood  pass'd  away  ; 

And  when  her  stronger  mind  could  feel 

More  deep  emotions  o'er  it  steal, 

When  her  pure  heart  look'd  forth  for  one, 

To  rest  her  pure  affections  on, 

Then  did  her  trusting  spirit  find 

An  answering  chord  in  Erstein's  mind  ; 


MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  childhood's  laughing  glance  and  tone 
Gave  place  to  deeper  joys  alone. 

And  only  would  her  cheek  grow  pale 
To  hear  some  wild  romantic  tale ; 
And  only  for  imagined  woe 
Her  sympathetic  tear  would  flow — 
Her  youthful  heart  had  never  known 
To  sigh  for  sorrows  of  its  own. 

The  past  was  all  one  vision  bright, 

A  storehouse  of  untold  delight, 

To  which  her  mind  at  will  might  stray ; 

And  bear  unnumber'd  gems  away ; 

With  trusting  hope  and  buoyant  glee, 

She  gazed  into  futurity, 

Nor  thought  that  time's  advancing  wing 

A  darker  moment  e'er  could  bring. 

The  dream  now  faded  from  her  eyes, — 

She  woke  to  life's  realities  ! 

And  feelings  pure,  aud  strong,  and  deep, 

Rose  from  their  long,  inactive  sleep, 

And  proudly  did  the  maiden  own 

A  strength  within,  till  then  unknown, 

That  which,  secure  in  virtue,  rose 

To  combat  with  assailing  foes. 

Oft  would  her  fearful  fancy  shrink 

Back  from  the  gulf's  tremendous  brink, 

And  oft  to  reason's  glance  would  rise 

The  madness  of  the  sacrifice. 

But  o'er  her  father's  aged  form 

There  hung  some  dark,  portentous  storm  ! 

A  daughter's  choice,  a  daughter's  will 

Could  ward  from  him  that  nameless  ill! 

And  thus  the  hapless  maiden  sought 

To  quell  each  wild,  rebellious  thought. 

And  morning  came,  and  soft  and  still 
She  dawn'd  above  the  distant  hill, 
Her  wreaths  of  trembling  light  to  twine 
On  the  blue  waters  of  the  Rhine. 
The  mists  which  on  his  bosom  lay, 
Pass'd  like  an  infant's  dream  away, 
And  left  the  sun's  awakening  beam 
To  frolic  with  his  mighty  stream. 

As  though  to  greet  the  dawning  day, 
The  rolling  billows  curl'd  in  play ; 
And  wild  and  murmuring  tones  were  borne 
Forth  on  the  balmy  breeze  of  morn. 
The  towering  cliffs,  so  dark  and  wild, 
On  its  rude  shores  in  masses  piled, 
Touch'd  by  her  gentle  influence,  smiled ; 
And  the  young  flowers  the  rocks  beneath 
Woke  at  the  dawn's  reviving  breath, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  229 

And  on  their  leaves,  so  soft  and  bright, 
Hung  tears  of  worship  and  delight. 
When  all  is  gay  with  nature's  smile, 
Forgive  me  if  I  pause  awhile, 
And  turn  from  passion,  grief,  unrest, 
To  muse  upon  her  tranquil  breast. 

Nature !  thou  ever  rollest  on, 

With  winter's  blast  and  summer's  sun, 

Untouch'd  by  passion's  raging  storm, 

Rearing  on  high  thy  mystic  form, 

Springing  anew  to  brighter  life 

Amid  the  world's  enduring  strife ! 

Man  lives,  and  breathes  his  fleeting  day, 

Now  sinks  'neath  sorrow's  chilling  sway, 

Now  basks  in  pleasure's  golden  ray, 

Then,  like  a  snow-curl,  melts  away.  , 

The  piles  he  rear'd  in  swelling  pride, 

To  strive  with  time's  o'erwhelming  tide, 

Proving  the  weakness  of  his  trust, 

Sunk,  like  their  builders,  in  the  dust. 

But  while  the  fabrics,  rear'd  so  high, 

In  ruins  on  thy  bosom  lie, 

Thou,  like  some  great  and  mystic  page, 

Unfoldest  still  from  age  to  age, 

Bearing  in  every  line  conceal'd 

The  wisdom  ages  could  not  yield ; 

Thy  flowers  shall  bloom,  thy  mountains  soar. 

Till  rolling  earth  shall  be  no  more ; 

Thine  ocean  waves  shall  sink  and  rise 

Till  Time  himself  exhausted  dies ; 

While  on  thy  mighty  bosom  spread 

The  crumbling  relics  of  the  dead  ! 

How  doth  this  sweet  and  solemn  hour 

Hold  o'er  the  heart  its  mystic  power  ! 

Bidding  each  wilder  tumult  cease, 

To  passion's  whirlwind  whispering  "  Peace !" 

Calming  the  frantic  flights  of  joy, 

And  bright'ning  sorrow's  downcast  eye  ! 

Oh  !  may  it  shed  its  influence  o'er 
The  tortured  heart  of  poor  Lenore ! 
She  who  was  wont  at  earliest  dawn 
To  cnase  the  wild  bird  o'er  the  lawn, 
While  the  young  flowers  their  fragrance  cast 
As  on  her  fairy  footstep  past! 
Who  now,  unheeding  bird  or  flower, 
Steals  forth  to  seek  her  favourite  bower, 
To  bid  each  cherish'd  scene  farewell, 
And  calm  her  heart's  convulsive  swell. 

There,  in  her  childhood's  buoyant  days, 
Oft  had  she  sung  her  artless  lays ; 

19* 


230  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  still,  as  time  roll'd  onward,  there 
At  morn  and  evening  would  repair, 
To  rear,  in  fancy,  forms  most  fair, 
Nor  dream  that  she  could  find  them — air ! 

Once  more,  within  her  loved  retreat, 

She  lean'd  upon  its  flowery  seat, 

And  mark'd  the  clustering  vines,  which  sent 

A  grateful  perfume  as  they  bent; 

Above  the  eastern  hills  of  blue 

The  sun's  broad  orb  more  brilliant  grew, 

And  many  a  rich  and  gorgeous  ray 

Full  on  the  glistening  forests  lay ; 

But  buried  in  her  lonely  bower, 

She  heeded  not  the  passing  hour  ! 

The  vines  beside  her  loudly  stirr'd 
But  not  a  sound  her  ear  had  heard ; 
A  step  seem'd  hast'ning  to  the  spot, 
But  still  the  maiden  mark'd  it  not — 
And  yet  more  near  the  intruder  came  ; 
A  well-known  voice  pronounced  her  name: 
She  started  lightly  from  her  seat, 
And  blush'd — 't  was  Erstein  at  her  feet ! 

As  the  bright  sun-hues  of  the  west 
Fade  from  the  snow-wreath's  pallid  crest, 
Flitted  that  blush  her  pale  cheek  o'er, 
And  left  it  paler  than  before  ! 
Oh,  had  you  seen  his  youthful  form, 
Adorn'd  with  every  manly  charm, 
And  known  his  heart  so  bold  and  warm, 
And,  like  Lenore,  that  heart  had  proved, 
You  would  not  marvel  that  she  loved. 

Bred  to  a  fierce  and  martial  life, 
Nurtured  for  years  on  fields  of  strife, 
A  spirit  fiery,   bold,  and  high, 
Was  pictured  in  his  flashing  eye, 
And  you  might  think  its  glance  implied 
A  soul  of  haughtiness  and  pride  ; 
But  when  some  gentler  feelings  stole 
O'er  the  deep  waters  of  that  soul, 
Then  fast  that  quick  and  burning  ray 
Melted  in  tenderness  away, 
And  lovelier  seem'd  its  gentle  beam, 
Contrasted  with  that  brilliant  gleam. 

When  first  a  brave  young  soldier,  come 
From  clashing  sword  and  pealing  drum, 
O'er  his  own  land  once  more  to  rove, 
Then  first  his  soul  awaked  to  love  ! 
And  oh,  what  floods  of  pure  delight 
Burst  in   upon   his  spirit's  sight ! 
What  depths  of  joy,  unknown  before, 
Oped  in  the  presence  of  Lenore  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  231 

Her  gentle  influence  suppress'd 
Each  sterner  passion  in  his  breast, 
And  while  controlling,  quell'd,  subdued 
Each  feeling,  haughty,  wild,  or  rude. 
From  her,  unwitting,  he  could  learn 
Her  father's  temper  dark  and  stern  ; 
Arid  while  had  glided  day  by  day 
In  tranquil   happiness  away, 
He  dared  not  break  the  magic  spell 
His  ardent  feelings  loved  too  well, 
By  laying  thoughts  and  hopes  so  bold 
Before  a  sire  so  stern  and  cold, 
Who  would  have  deem'd  it  daring  pride 
To  claim  his  daughter  as  a  bride; 
He  who  had  nought  to  aid  his  claim 
But  love,  his  honour,  and  his  name. 

Thus  he  was  wont,  when  morning  gray 
Cast  o'er  the  hills  its  earliest  ray, 
Clad  in  the  huntsman's  sylvan  gear, 
To  chase  ( 't  was  said )  the  wild-wood  deer ; 
But  ever,  when  his  searching  eye 
The  towers  of  Arnheim  could  desorj^ 
He  left  his  faithful  steed  to  wait 
Within  the  thicket's  dark  retreat, 
And  bounded  lawn  and  streamlet  o'er 
To  snatch  one  moment  with  Lenore. 
This,  mom  with  bosom  bounding  high, 
With  springing  step  and  sparkling  eye, 
He  came  to  seek  her, — but  in  vain ; 
He  pass'd  her  favourite  haunts  again, 
Till  winding  down  a  shaded  way, 
Which  o'er  the  cliffs  dark  bosom  lay, 
He  turn'd  the  castle's  rearmost  tower, 
And  found  this  lone,  sequester'd  bower. 

I  may  not  tune  my  youthful  string 
That  scene  of  hapless  love  to  sing ; 
Song  cannot  well  those  thoughts  reveal 
The  heart  ne'er  felt,  and  cannot  feel  ; 
Let  fancy  then  her  garland  weave, 
And  fill  the  trifling  void  I  leave. 
Suffice  it  that  with   bearing  high, 
And  sad  composure  in  her  eye, 
And  throbbing  nerves  and  bursting  heart, 
Well  did  that  maiden  act  her  part, 
And  gave  a  tale  of  grief  and  fear 
To  Erstein's  wondering,  listening  ear. 
Not  so  the  youth, — a  burning  glow 
Was  mounting  fiercely  to  his  brow, 
And  grief  and  anger  in  his  eye, 
Were  struggling   for   the  mastery. 
When  Herman's  name  escaped  her  tongue, 
Quick  to  his  feet  he  wildly  sprung. 


232  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  In  foreign  lands  that  wretch  I  met ; 
Fiend  !  sordid  villain  !  lives  he  yet ! 
Oh  !  were  the  scoffer  here  to  meet 
From  this  strong  hand  his  well-earn'd  fate, 
How  few  would  be  the  moments  given 
To  make  his  spirit's  peace  with  heaven  ! 
w  But  thou,  Lenore !  my  steed  is  nigh, 
And  I  will  save  thee  ! — Dearest,  fly  !" 
u  No  !  Erstein,  no !  I'd  rather  die  ! 
My  fate  is  fix'd,  my  lot  is  cast, 
Its  keenest  bitterness  is  past ; 
Though  her  heart  break,  the  poor  Lenore 
Must  think  of  thee  and  love  no  more ! 
"  Oh,  leave  me  !  'tis  my  prayer,  my  will ; 
Make  not  my  task  more  dreadful  still : 
Thou  knowest  more  than  I  would  tell, 
Erstein,  away !  farewell,  farewell !" 
With  trembling  hand,  the  cavalier 
Dash'd  from  his  eye  the  starting  tear, 
Bow'd  on  her  hand  his  burning  head, 
And  ere  her  heart  could  throb,  had  fled. 

END   OF    CANTO   FIRST. 


The  notes  have  paused — the  song  hath  died  away, 

And  wonldst  thou  wake  the  trembling  tones  again  I 
And  while  the  minstrel  pours  his  wandering  lay 

Bid  thy  warm  heart  re-echo  to  the  strain  ? 
Wouldst  hear  the  sequel  of  this  simple  tale, 

And  list  attentive  to  the  voice  of  woe  ? 
Weep  with  affection,  or  with  fear  turn  pale, 

And  smile  when  riseth  joy's  triumphant  glow  ? 
Then  will  I  touch  the  quivering  harp  once  more, 

While  fancy  spreads  her  rainbow-tinted  wing, 
O'er  the  dark  vale  of  buried  years  to  soar, 

And  back  to  life  their  faded  shadows  bring ! 
And  thou  must  gently  glance  its  errors  o'er, 

Should  the  untutor'd  bard  uncouthly  sing, 

CANTO  SECOND. 

OH,  darkly  the  shadows  of  evening  fell 

On  forest  and  mountain,  on  streamlet  and  dell, 

And  the  clouds,  in  masses  of  sombre  hue, 

O'er  the  couch  of  the  morning  their  draperies  threw  ; 

And  their  shade  fell  dark  on  the  Rhine  below, 

Whose  billows  heaved  proudly  and  slowly,  as  though 

The  giant  heart  of  the  tempest-god 

Was  beating  strong  'neath  its  swelling  flood. 

Its  voice  came  up  with  a  sullen  roar 

As  the  waves  dash'd  fierce  on  the  rock-bound  shore, 

And  the  wild-bird  screum'd  as  he  skimm'd  them  o'er, 

While  the  vessel  which  flew  o'er  its  surface  that  day. 

With  her  white  wings  furl'd  on  its  dark  bosom  lay, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  233 

Just  kissing  the  foam  with  her  bending  side, 
As  if  owning  the  power  of  the  lordly  tide. 

The  morning  rose  meekly,  and  softly,  and  fair, 

But  at  evening  the  frown  of  the  storm-god  was  there, 

And  gladness  and  beauty  fled  back  from  his  eye, 

Like  the  smile  from  the  spirit  when  sorrows  draw  nigh. 

Where  the  sunbeams  had  wreathed  round  the  mountain  s  tall  crest 

Now  floated  a  mantle  of  darkness  and  mist, 

And  the  wing  of  the  tempest  did  fearfully  fall 

O'er  the  arches  and  towers  of  that  time-honour'd  hall. 

The  portal  was  shut,  and  the  drawbridge  was  raised, 

And  no  gleam  of  a  torch  from  the  banquet- hall  blazed  ; 

But  with  faces  of  gloom,  and  steps  measured  and  slow, 

The  warders  were  pacing  the  gateway  below, 

Now  silently  marking  the  clouds  overhead, 

Now  whispering  in  accents  of  sorrow  and  dread. 

The  hall  was  deserted ;  the  court-yard  alone 

Heard  an  echoing  tread  on  its  pavement  of  stone, 

And  parties  of  menials  were  gathering  there 

With  faces  of  mystery,  faces  of  care. 

Not  a  voice  was  heard  but  in  murmurings  low, 

Not  a  torch  was  seen  with  its  cheerful  glow, 

Save  where  a  ray  was  streaming  o'er 

The  ancient  chapel's  massive  door, 

And  wandering  with  its  glimmer  faint 

O'er  sculptured  cherubim  and  saint. 

'T  was  an  ancient  pile,  and  the  creeping  vine 

Had  begun  o'er  its  mouldering  arches  to  twine, 

And  the  long  bright  grass  unmark'd  had  grown 

On  the  broken  pavement  of  crumbling  stone  ; 

And  the  rude  remains  of  a  ruder  day, 

Shatter'd  and  torn  'neath  its  vaulted  roof  lay. 

'T  was  a  solemn  scene,  when  the  ancient  pile 
Was  glittering  bright  in  the  morning  smile. 

And  bold  in  nerve  and  in  heart  was  he, 
Who  would  dare  to  walk  in  its  haunted  aisle  ' 

For  oh,  it  was  fearful  there  to  be 

When  the  night  was  falling  gloomily ; 
When  the  tempest  shriek' d  round  its  massive  wall, 
And  darkness  enrobed  it  like  a  pall. 
Why  then  doth  light  unwonted  shine 
From  the  gilded  lamps  on  the  ruin'd  shrine? 
And  why  o'er  the  rest  of  the  baron's  hall 
Is  it  darkness  and  silence  and  dreariness  all  ? 
And  why  with  that  anxious  and  sorrowful  mien, 
Do  the  menials  gaze  on  the  desolate  scene? 

Alas  !  those  chapel  walls  this  night 

Must  witness  a  dark,  unholy  rite, 

And  the  gale,  which  shrieks  in  its  fitful  start, 

Must  sing  the  wail  of  a  broken  heart ! 

And  on  that  sacred  altar,  where 

So  soft  the  suppliant  breathed  his  prayer, 

A  young  and  ardent  soul  must  lay 

A  deeper  sacrifice  to-day — 

Upon  its  marble  bosom  fling 

The  blushing  flowers  of  life's  warm  spring, 


234  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  all  the  radiant  garlands  wove 
By  buoyant  hope  and  guileless  love. 

Alas,  that  man's  unhallow'd  hand 
The  spirit's  sacred  veil  should  rend, 
And  for  his  own  dark  purpose  tear 
The  warm  and  glowing  treasures  there ; 
Then  as  in  mockery  dare  to  twine, 
Upon  his  Maker's  holy  shrine, 
Those  pure  and  fond  affections,  given 
To  make  this  weary  earth  a  heaven. 

When  last  those  crumbling  walls  had  heard 
Or  muffled  tread  or  whisper'd  word, 
A  funeral  wail  had  fill'd  the  pile, 
A  train  of  mourners  fill'd  the  aisle, 
And  there  in  solemn  pomp  interr'd 
A  distant  kinsman  of  their  lord. 

Thus  still  upon  the  shrouded  wall 
Hung  the  black  draperies,  like  a  pall, 
In  long  unmoving  masses,  save 
When  the  chill  wind  its  folds  would  wave, 
And  swelling  slow  the  dismal  screen 
Betray  the  shatter'd  stones  between. 

Tall  torches  burn'd  the  shrine  before, 
Casting  their  rays  the  chapel  o'er, 
And  shedding  pale  and  sickly  light 
Upon  the  scowling  brow  of  night ! 
f      While,  from  each  lofty  arch,  the  eye 
Could  mark  the  thick  clouds  passing  by, 
In  blackening  masses,  wildly  driven 
Athwart  the  frowning  face  of  heaven. 

The  vaulted  ceiling  echoed  round 

Each  clanking  tread,  or  mutter'd  sound, 

And  the  blast  which  crept  o'er  the  pavements  bare, 

And  waved  the  torches'  flickering  glare, 

Wail'd  in  a  sad  and  thrilling  tone, 

Like  a  departed  spirit's  moan. 

Beside  the  altar  stood  its  priest, 
His  wan  hands  folded  on  his  breast, 
The  quivering  torchlight  o'er  him  playing, 
His  gray  locks  round  his  forehead  straying. 
And  his  eye  wandering  here  and  there, 
With  anxious  and  unsettled  air  ; 
And  ever,  as  its  glance  would  fall 
On  Herman's  form,  so  grim  and  tall, 
He  mutter'd,  turn'd  in  shuddering  haste, 
And  sign'd  the  cross  upon  his  breast. 

Well  might  the  priest  instinctive  turn, 
From  gazing  on  a  face  so  stern ; 
For  oh,  it  told  of  storms  within, 
The  strife  of  passion,  pride,  and  sin ; 
More  fearful,  more  appalling  far, 
Than  the  fierce  tempest's  raging  war. 

With  hurried  steps  he  paced  awhile 
The  grass-grown  pavements  of  the  aislp, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  235 

And  on  the  open  portal  nigh 
His  keen  glance  fell  impatiently. 
Till  his  dark  brow  yet  darker  lower'd. 
And  his  hand  fiercely  grasp' d  his  sword. 

"  If  he  should  dare  deceive  me  !  then 
He'll  find  the  lion  in  his  den!" 
Scarce  were  the  startling  accents  o'er, 
When  darkening  shadows  fill'd  the  door ; — 
It  was  the  baron  and  Lenore. 

A  large  dark  mantle,  closely  drawn, 
Conceal' d  the  maiden's  fragile  form  ; 
But  her  measured  step  was  firmer  far 
Than  the  trembling  tread  of  her  aged  sire, 
And  she  came  with  a  calm  and  unfaltering  air. 
To  offer  up  all  that  was  dear  to  her  there. 

And  when  she  stood  the  shrine  beside, 
A  sad  and  self- devoted  bride, 
She  clasp'd  her  hands,  and  raised  on  high 
The  thrilling  glance  of  her  tearless  eye, 
And  the  stern  bridegroom  shrunk  below 
That  look  of  fix'd  and  speechless  woe. 

But  the  keen  pang  pass'd  quickly  o'er, 
And  left  her  tranquil  as  before  : 
Her  pallid  fingers  gently  press'd 
The  clasping  jewel  on  her  breast, 
And  the  dark  mantle  falling  back, 
Reveal'd  her  bridal  robe  of  black  ! 
The  massive  folds  hung  drooping  there 
Around  her  form,  so  slight  and  fair, 
As  the  sad  cypress  in  its  gloom 
O'er  the  white  marble  of  the  tomb. 

In  unconfined  and  native  grace 
Her  long  dark  tresses  veil'd  her  face, 
Contrasting  with  the  cheek  and  brow 
So  pallid  and  so  deathlike  now, 
And  casting  round  her,  as  they  stray'd, 
A  waving  and  a  dreamlike  shade. 
Thus  stood  she,  motionless  and  still, 
Like  some  pale  form  of  Grecian  skill, 
Placed  by  the  matchless  sculptor  there, 
A  breathing  image  of  despair. 

One  torturing,  agonizing  day 
Had  quell' d  the  heart  so  light  and  gay, 
And  given  her  mien  a  bearing  high 
Of  calm  and  thoughtful  dignity. 

The  baron  started  as  his  eye 

Fell  on  her  sombre  drapery  : 

"  Lenore,"  he  whisper'd,  "why  to-day 

Assume  such  ominous  array? 

Couldst  thou  not  find  a  bridal  dress 

More  fitting  such  a  scene  as  this?" 


236  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

She  bent  her  dark  and  earnest  gaze 
A  moment  on  her  father's  face, 
As  if  her  senses  could  not  hear 
The  words  which  fell  upon  her  ear, 
Then  said,  with  quick,  convulsive  start, 
"  And  wouldst  thou  gild  a  bleeding  heart? 
A  broken  spirit  wouldst  thou  fold 
In  sparkling  robes  of  tinsell'd  gold  ? 
T  were  mockery  !  this  is  fittest  guise 
To  deck  a  living  sacrifice." 

The  baron  turn'd  in  sudden  thought 
To  Herman's  towering  form,  and  sought 
To  melt  that  heart,  more  hard  than  steel, 
By  one  long  look  of  mute  appeal, 
As  half  expecting  to  receive 
Some  blessed  signal  of  reprieve  ; 
But  his  knit  brow  and  flushing  eye 
Reveal'd  his  dark  and  stern  reply, 
And  the  priest  oped  the  sacred  book 
With  pale  and  hesitating  look. 
The  thunder's  deep  and  muttering  tone 
Broke  on  the  listening  ear  alone; 
He  paused,  bent  low  his  moisten'd  brow, 
And  read  with  quivering  voice  and  slow. 
While  yet  the  feeble  accents  hung 
Unfinish'd  on  his  faltering  tongue  ; 
Through  the  tall  arches  flashing  came 
A  broad  and  livid  sheet  of  flame, 
Playing  with  fearful  radiance  o'er 
The  upraised  features  of  Lenore, 
The  shrinking  form  of  her  trembling  sire, 
The  bridegroom's  face  of  scowling  ire, 
And  the  folded  hands,  and  heaving  breast, 
And  prophet-like  mien  of  the  aged  priest ! 

'T  was  a  breathless  pause, — but  a  moment  more, 

And  that  fierce,  unnatural  beam  was  o'er, 

And  a  stunning  crash,  as  if  earth  were  driven 

On  thundering  wheels  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 

Burst,  peal'd,  and  mutter'd,  long  and  deep, 

Then  sinking,  growl'd  itself  to  sleep, 

And  all  was  still ; — the  priest  first  broke 

Th'  oppressive  silence  as  he  spoke : 

"  Both  heaven  and  earth  their  powers  unite 

Against  this  dark,  unhallow'd  rite  ! 

A  voice  without,  a  voice  within, 

Hath  told  me  that  the  deed  were  sin  ! 

Though  death  and  danger  bar  my  way, 

I  will  not  —  dare  not  disobey!" 

A  cloud  more  dark  than  the  tempest  now 
Was  gathering  sternly  on  Herman's  brow  : 
"  Priest !  madman  !  hypocrite  !  proceed  ! 
Or  blows  shall  mend  thy  coward  creed  !" 
M  For  God's  sake,  peace  !"  the  baron  cried, 
And  closer  drew  to  Herman's  side. 
One  moment,  peace  !  for  hark  !  I  hear 
Loud  cries  mm*  nearer  and  more  near!" 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  237 

11  Fool !"  'tis  the  wailing  of  the  blast, 
Which  sweeps  these  echoing  ruins  past ! 
I  brook  no  dallying  !     Deal  thou  fair, 
Or  by  yon  heaven,  old  man,  I  swear, 
Thou  shalt  have  reason  to  beware  1" 
Still  did  the  cowering  baron  stand, 
With  fixed  eye  and  upraised  hand, 
As  one  who  bends  an  earnest  ear 
Some  faint  and  distant  sound  to  hear. 

And  while  he  listen'd,  by  degrees 

That  sound  came  swelling  on  the  breeze. 

Now  low  and  hoarse,  now  shrill  and  loud. 

Like  mingled  voices  of  a  crowd ; 

And  as  more  near  the  tones  were  heard, 

Did  Herman  fiercely  grasp  his  sword, 

As  if  preparing  to  chastise. 

Whate'er  should  bar  his  destined  prize  ! 

And  louder  still  the  clamour  rose, 

Like  mingled  sounds  of  shouts  and  blows, 

And  on  that  tide  of  tumult  came 

The  baron's  and  the  bridegroom's  name. 

One  moment  struck  with  mute  surprise, 
Each  raised  to  each  his  wondering  eyes ; 
But  Herman,  roused  to  action  first, 
Forth  from  the  group  infuriate  burst ; 
When,  ere  the  baron  reach'd  his  side, 
The  low-brow'd  portal  open'd  wide, 
And  a  menial,  pale  with  breathless  haste, 
Wounded  and  bleeding,  forward  press'd  : 
Fly  to  the  rescue,  baron,  fly  ! 
Ere  all  thy  faithful  followers  die ! 
For  armed  men  the  moat  have  pass'd, 
Have  gain'd  the  inner  court  at  last, 
And  fight  and  clamour  for  thy  guest !" 

A  wild  and  bitter  laughter  rung 
.  From  Herman's  lips  ere  forth  he  sprung. 
"  And  so  my  comrades  come  to  trace 
Their  worthy  leader's  lurking-place  ? 
'T  is  well !  not  yet  my  race  is  run, 
And  dearly  shall  my  life  be  won  !" 

The  baron  and  his  guest  have  gone  : 
The  bride  and  priest  are  here  alone  ! 
How  doth  that  fragile  plant  sustain 
Its  courage  in  this  hour  of  pain  ? 
Perplex'd,  bewilder'd,  and  amazed, 
Upon  the  shifting  scene  she  gazed, 
And  only  felt,  with  quick  delight, 
That  he  whose  presence  seem'd  a  blight 
To  chill  each  heart  with  shuddering  fear, 
That  he  no  more  was  lingering  near. 

She  breathed  one  deep  and  thrilling  groan, 
And  sank  upon  the  shatter'd  stone  ! 
She  had  nor  power  nor  will  to  rise, 
But  with  clasp'd  hands,  and  straining  eyes 
20 


238  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Fix'd  on  the  portal,  did  she  wait 
The  coming  crisis  of  her  fate. 

The  wind  rush'd  in  from  the  open'd  door, 
And  the  red  torchlight  was  no  more, 
And  the  rude  pile  was  dafrk,  save  where 
The  lightning  spread  its  ghastly  glare, 
Or  from  the  crowded  court-yard  came 
Some  broadband  glancing  stream  of  flame. 

The  wounded  man's  expiring  groan 
Seem'd  echoed  from  the  root  of  stone ; 
And  louder  yet  the  piercing  din 
Burst  on  the  listening  pair  within. 
The  stone-paved  court  alternate  rang 
With  clashing  steel,  and  shout,  and  clang ; 
And  waving  wildly  to" and  fro, 
The  torches  spread  their  fiery  glow, 
Casting  o'er  every  point  of  sight 
A  glaring  and  unearthly  light ; 
While,  as  the  fearful  shouts  did  rise 
In  blended  tumult  to  the  skies, 
The  spirit  of  the  midnight  storm 
Rear'd  on  the  clouds  his  black'ning  form, 
And  with  each  cry  which  swell' d  the  gale 
Mingled  his  wild  and  shrieking  wail. 

Now  closer  drew  the  assailing  band, 
With  sword  to  sword,  and  hand  to  hand, 
And  fiercely  toward  the  chapel  pressed, 
Where  stood  the  baron  and  his  guest. 
Herman,  with  fix'd  and  cautious  eye 
Beheld  his  furious  foes  draw  nigh, 
And  vow'd  in  this  unequal  strife 
Not  he  alone  should  part  with  life. 

Nearer  they  came,  with  shout  and  cry, 
"  Down  with  the  traitor !  caitiff,  die  !" 
And  if  a  moment  more  had  sped, 
The  wretch  had  number' d  with  the  dead  ; 
When,  with  a  voice  deep-toned  and  loud, 
A  tall  form  issued  from  the  crowd, 
Press' d  firmly  through  the  rushing  tide, 
And  springing  close  to  Herman's  side, 
In  calm  commanding  accents  cried  : 

"And  are  ye  men  ?    Bear  back,  I  say  ! 
Ye  throng  like  tigers  on  their  prey  ! 
Bear  back  a  space,  and  he  or  I 
In  fair  and  equal  fight  shall  die!" 

As  waves  retire  with  sullen  roar, 
From  meeting  with  the  rock-bound  shore, 
The  crowd  bore  back  with  mutterings  low, 
In  waving  columns,  long  and  slow, 
And  stood,  with  eager  gaze,  to  wait 
The  youthful  champion's  coming  fate. 

The  stranger  raised  his  sword,  when  nigh 
There  burst  a  low  and  thrilling  cry ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  239 

He  turn'd  —  a  wretch  unseen  before, 
Still  linger'd  by  the  chapel  door, 
And  raised  in  air  his  gleaming  blade 
Above  the  baron's  aged  head. 
One  spring — one  stroke — with  piercing  yell, 
And  long  deep  groan  the  miscreant  fell ; 
And  the  young  warrior  stood  before 
His  dark-brow'd  combatant  once  more  ! 

Herman,  with  eager  look,  intent 
Upon  his  foe  his  keen  eye  bent ; 
And  while  he  thus  his  form  survey'd, 
His  quivering  lip  his  rage  betrayed  ; 
Then  forth  in  furious  haste  he  sprang, 
Till  the  young  stranger's  armour  rang 
With  his  quick  strokes'  incessant  clang. 

Regardless  to  preserve  his  own, 
He  sought  the  stranger's  life  alone, 
With  panting  breast  and  flashing  eye, 
And  all  a  madman's  energy  ; 
While  calm  and  firm  his  foe  repaid 
Each  stroke  with  true  unerring  blade. 

A  few,  but  fearful  moments  pass'd, 
Till  blind  with  headlong  rage  at  last, 
Herman,  with  desperate  fierceness,  press'd, 
And  aim'd  a  quick  blow  at  his  breast ; 
The  youth  beheld,  sprung  lightly  round, 
Dash'd  the  rais'd  weapon  to  the  ground, 
And  while  the  fragments  scatter'd  wide, 
He  sheathed  his  sword  in  Herman's  side  ! 
Then  bending  o'er  his  fallen  foe, 
Whisper'd  in  accents  stern  and  low, 
"  Herman  !  thy  miscreant  life  I  spare  ! 
But  should  we  meet  again — beware  !" 
Then  gliding  through  the  low-arch' d  door 
His  manly  form  was  seen  no  more  ! 

With  straining  eye  and  changeless  mien 
Lenore  had  marked  this  fearful  scene, 
Till  her  chill'd  heart  seem'd  palsied  there 
With  terror  bordering  on  despair. 
But  when  the  gallant  stranger  came, 
A  something  whisper' d  Erstein's  name, 
And  when  beneath  the  dubious  light 
She  saw  him  conqueror  in  the  fight, 
Her  heart  seem'd  bursting  with  delight. 
Hope,  with  its  trembling  radiance,  stole 
O'er  the  dark  desert  of  her  soul — • 
Her  head  drqop'd  lightly  on  her  breast, 
As  when  an  infant  sinks  to  rest  ; 
Her  heart  gave  one  convulsive  thrill, 
Leap'd — flutter' d  wildly — and  was  still 
The  courage  grief  could  not  destroy 
Bow'd  to  intensity  of  joy. 
The  prio.st,  unheeding  all  besido. 
Bent  sndly  o'er  the  fainting  bride, 


210  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

With  mystic  sign  and  mutter'd  prayer, 

And  all  an  anxious  father's  care  ; 

But  as  he  knelt,  absorb'd  the  while, 

A  quick  step  echoed  through  the  aisle — 

A  burst  of  joy  assailed  his  ear  ; 

He  turn'd — the  stranger  youth  was  near! 

A  moment  more — -his  stalwart  arm 
Had  raised  the  maiden's  drooping  form, 
And  turning  swift,  his  eagle  eye 
Roam'd  o'er  the  walls  inquiringly. 
The  priest  observed  his  doubtful  air, 
And  clearly  read'his  meaning  there  : 
Trembling,  he  raised  the  massive  pall 
Which  hung  beside  the  crumbling  wall, 
And  oped  a  secret  door  that  led 
Within  a  thicket's  tangled  shade. 

The  youth  bow'd  low  his  plumed  head, 
And  'neath  the  ruin'd  portal  fled! 
The  priest  conceal' d  it  as  before, 
And  turning,  past  the  draperies  o'er, 

But  breathed  a  low  and  smother' d  cry, 
As,  fix'd  upon  that  secret  door, 

His  own  met  Herman's  baleful  eye. 

It  burn'd  with  hatred's  living  flame, 

And  rage  convulsed  his  giant  frame, 

A  curse  hung  quiring  on  his  tongue  ; 

Each  nerve  to  dark  revenge  was  strung ; 

And  the  full  arteries  of  his  brow, 

Were  swelled  like  livid  serpents  now. 

The  boiling  blood  with  sudden  start 

Had  gather' d  fiercely  at  his  heart, 

And  lent  his  cheeks  and  lips  a  hue 

Of  ghastly  and  unearthly  blue. 

But  quick  the  coward  tide  return'd, 

And  through  his  veins  like  wildfire  burn'd 

And  o'er  his  features  crept  the  while, 

Their  sneering  and  revengeful  smile — 

When  in  that  crowded  coujrt  he  fell 

Beneath  that  foe  he  knew  too  well, 

He  sought  to  find  a  safe  retreat 

From  clashing  swords  and  trampling  feet — 

And  while  he  lean'd,  with  whirling  brain, 

The  portal's  sculptured  arch  beside, 
Saw  with  a  rage  surmounting  pain, 

The  flight  of  Erstein  and  his  bride. 

And  where  hath  he  fled  with  his  lovely  one,  say  ? 
And  where  are  they  wending  their  perilous  way  ? 
The  lover  hath  mounted  his  faithful  steed, 
He  is  bounding  away  with  the  lightning  speed ! 
One  arm  is  supporting  the  rescued  bride, 
One  hand  is  at  freedom  his  bridle  to  guide, 
And  his  spurs  are  dash'd  in  the  charger's  side. 

Beneath  them  the  turf,  and  above  them  th*e  sky, 
Away  and  away  on  iheir  pathway  they  fly  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  241 

The  sound  of  the  tumult  grew  fainter  and  low, 
And  faded  in  distance  the  torches'  red  glow, 
And  in  silence  unbroken  the  fugitive  sped, 
Save  when  the  low  thunder  was  growling  o'erhead, 
Or  the  tempest  was  wailing,  now  shrill,  now  deep, 
As  it  crept  in  the  arms  of  the  morning  to  sleep. 

While  the  black  clouds  were  rolling  in  masses  away, 

O'er  the  hills  of  the  east  rose  a  faint  streak  of  gray ; 

And  as  onward  they  flew,  on  the  dim  air  was  borne 

The  soft  cooling  breath  of  a  bright  summer's  morn  ! 

Their  speed  as  they  bounded  the  forest  path  o'er 

Recall'd  the  faint  throb  to  the  heart  of  Lenore, 

But  her  senses  bewilder'd  long  laboured  in  vain 

To  dispel  the  wild  fancies  which  thronged  on  her  brain  j 

And  when  she  awoke  to  the  real  at  last, 

Oh  what  mingled  emotions  were  stirr'd  in  her  breas*., 

Till  her  heart  overflowing  found  soothing  relief 

In  tears  of  united  thanksgiving  and  grief! 

She  rerriember'd  the  scene  in  the  old  ruin'd  aisle, 

And  silently  pray'd  for  the  victor  the  while, 

Then  she  thought  of  her  sire,  and  she  shrank  from  hi«  s«4« 

And  "  My  father  !  my  father !"  she  bitterly  cried. 

"  Fear  not  for  your  father  !  yon  furious  band 

Sought  nothing  but  haply  his  gold  at  his  hand  ! 

It  was  Herman  they  sought,  and  they  long'd'for  the  blood 

Of  that  traitor  alike  to  the  vile  and  the  good  !" 

"  And  whither  art  bearing  me,  Erstein,  and  why  ? 
And  where  shall  Lenore  for  a  resting-place  fly  ?" 
"  We  are  hasting  away  to  my  rude  mountain  tower  ! 
'T  is  a  rugged  retreat  ibr  so  fragile  a  flower  ; 
But  my  sister  shall  cherish  the  blossom  with  care 
Till  it  blooms  again,  brighter  and  sweeter  than  e'er." 
"  And  how  didst  thou  come  in  that  moment  of  gloom, 
To  snatch  me  away  from  my  terrible  doom  ?" 

"  Lenore,  my  beloved  !  thou  rememberest  the  hour 
When  I  parted  from  thee  in  the  myrtle-wreath'd  bower  ; 
That  hour  which  was  fated  awhile  to  destroy 
Each  hope  of  the  future,  each  vision  of  joy; 
I  mounted  my  charger,  I  knew  not  how, 

And  I  rode  like  a  madman,  I  knc"/  not  where  ; 
For  my  brain  was  hot  with  a  fiery  glow, 

And  my  heart  was  chill'd  with  a  cold  despair.; 
I  abandoned  the  reins  to  my  faithful  steed, 
And  we  bounded  away  with  a  maniac  speed, 
Till  exhausted  and  worn  with  exertion  we  stood 
On  the  barren  skirts  of  a  lonely  wood ; 
'Twas  deep  immersed  in  a  mountain  dell, 

On  the  rocky  banks  of  a  brawling  stream, 
Which  o'er  a  dark  precipice  rapidly  fell, 

With  dashing  and  foaming,  and  murmur  and  gleam, 
I  threw  myself  down  by  a  rock-cover'd  cave, 
And  silently  bent  o'er  the  breast  of  the  wave, 
And  more  calm  in  my  veins  did  the  life-current  flow, 
While  the  spray  dashed  cool  on  my  feverish  brow 
21* 


242  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Of  Herman  I  thought,  and  my  pulses  beat  higher, 

And  my  bosom  throbb'd  wild  with  the  "  tempest  of  ire  !" 

But  then  o'er  my  fancy  that  loved  image  crept, 

And  forgive  me,  Lenore,  if  in  anguish  I  wept ! 

While  musing  thus  sadly,  Pstarted  to  hear 

The  sound  of  rude  voices  assailing  my  ear. 

I  turn'd, — from  the  cavern  beside  me  they  came,— 

And  the  speaker  named  Herman's  detestable  name  ! 

I  listen'd — but,  dearest,  so  stainless  thou  art, 

In  each  word  of  thy  lips,  and  each  thought  of  thy  heart 

That  could  I  repeat,  I  should  tell  thee  in  vain 

Of  a  language  so  loose,  so  impure  and  profane  ! 

Then  listen,  Lenore,  as  I  briefly  shall  tell 

The  meaning  Igain'd  from  their  words  as  they  fell. 

They  were  robbers — a  fearful  and  ruffian  band, 

Most  sordid  of  heart,  and  most  bloody  of  hand, 

And  Herman  had  been,  for  full  many  a  year, 

Their  chief  in  each  deed  of  rebellion  and  fear  ! 

Yes  !  he  whose  presumption  hath  claim'd  ihee  as  bride 

To  that  lawless  and  desperate  band  was  allied  ; 

Meet  comrades  for  one  whose  degenerate  mind 

Is  stain'd  with  each  crime  which  can  blacken  mankind. 

Thus  a  stranger  to  mercy,  a  stranger  to  fear, 

He  had  rush'd  on,  uncheck'd  in  his  reckless  career, 

Till,  unheeding  the  pledge  which  at  entrance  he  gave, 

In  secret  he  fled  from  the  robbers'  wild  cave, 

Bearing  with  him  away  their  iniquitous  spoil, 

The  fruits  they  had  reap'd  from  unhallowed  toil ' 

Oh  long  did  they  labour,  but  labour 'd  in  vain, 

Some  trace  of  their  villanous  chieftain  to  gain, 

Till  a  comrade  return'd  with  the  tidings  at  last, 

That  the  Baron  of  Arnheim  received  him  as  guest, 

And  this  eve  was  to  join  his  perfidious  hand 

To  the  fairest  flower  of  his  native  land. 

Then  they  vow'd  revenge,  and  they  fearfully  swore 

That  long  ere  the  shadows  of  midnight  were  o'er, 

They  would  give  to  their  leader,  false  Herman,  the  meed 

He  had  won  by  the  coward  and  traitorous  deed  ' 

They  resolved  to  assemble  at  eventide  there, 

And  in  arms  to  the  Castle  of  Arnheim  repair, 

To  recover  the  gold  they  had  lost,  and  assuage, 

In  the  blood  of  their  chieftain,  their  hatred  and  rage. 

Thus  said  they,  Lenore ;  and  now  eager  I  heard 

Each  ruffian  voice,  and  each  half-suppress'd  word  ; 

For  while  o'er  my  senses  their  dark  import  stole, 

A  light  broke  in  on  my  desperate  soul, 

And  methought  I  discovered  a  path  to  guide 

My  steps  once  more  to  my  dear  one's  side. 

I  could  join  their  band  at  the  castle  gate  ; 

I  could  rescue  thee  from  thy  dreadful  fate,  ^ 

And  while  they  were  in  fury  revenging  their  wrong, 

And  searching  for  gold  'neath  each  time-worn  wall, 
I  could  plunge  unseen  'mid  the  motley  throng, 

And  bear  away  that  which  was  dearer  than  all ! 
Oh,  blest  be  our  Lady  !  who  guided  me  well, 

And  supported  thy  soul  on  this  terrible  night ! 
But  Lenore  !  my  beloved  !  thy  cheek  is  too  pale, 

And  the  tear  steals  adown  it — oh  say,  was  I  right  ?" 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  243 

She  spoke  no  word,  but  he  read  her  reply 

In  the  timid  glance  of  her  downcast  eye, 

And  the  blush  which  sprung  to  her  varying  cheek, 

In  token  of  thoughts  which  she  dared  not  speak  ! 

He  saw  the  glance,  and  he  felt  its  charm, 

And  he  folded  the  mantle  more  close  round  her  form, 

And  silently  spurring  his  charger  again, 

They  bounded  away  over  forest  and  plain. 

And  softly  and  meekly  the  morning  light 

Stole  up  from  the  arms  of  that  storm-toss'd  night, 

And  faintly  trembled  its  dawning  beam 

On  each  sparkling  valley  and  purling  stream. 

And  d*anced  on  the  leaves  of  the  forest  trees, 

As  they  slowly  waved  in  the  sighing  breeze, 

And  with  dripping  branches  bended  low, 

As  if  weeping  the  fate  of  each  fallen  bough. 

"Lenore!"  said  Erstein,  "  Lenore,  behold, 

How  each  cloud  from  the  glance  of  the  morning  hath  roll'd ; 

How  the  storm  of  the  midnight  has  glided  away, 

And  no  traces  are  left  of  its  passage  to-day, 

Save  a  pensive  hue,  which  is  stealing  o'er, 

And  making  all  nature  more  fair  than  before. 

"  The  whispering  gale  that  is  floating  past, 

Is  all  that  remains  of  the  howling  blast, 

And  the  sparkling  waves  of  yon  tiny  river 

Rush  onward  more  swiftly  and  gaily  than  ever ; 

While  the  emerald  turf  on  the  graceful  hill 

Outrivals  in  splendour  the  dew-dripping  rill, 

And  the  trees  round  its  base  with  their  broad  arms  cling, 

Like  the  diamond  crown  of  a  giant  king. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  type  of  our  fate,  Lenore, 

For  our  storm  of  misfortune  has  glided  o'er, 

And  the  joyous  morning  of  hope  and  love 

Is  dawning  our  radiant  pathway  above  ; 

And  life  shall  flow  on  with  its  dancing  stream, 

With  murmur  and  sparkle,  with  music  and  gleam, 

And  the  glittering  dew-drops  alone  shall  last, 

To  remind  our  souls  of  the  storms  that  have  past." 

A  sunbeam  of  gladness,  a  smile  from  the  soul, 

O'er  the  face  of  Lenore  insensibly  stole  ; 

They  were  slowly  ascending  a  verdant  hill, 

At  whose  base  there  rippled  a  murmuring  rill. 

And  she  gazed  on  the  vale  they  had  left,  till  her  sight 

Seem'd  melting  in  tears  of  exquisite  delight. 

But  she  suddenly  utter' d  a  smother'd  cry, 

As  a  figure  advancing  arrested  her  eye  ; 

'T  was  a  horseman,  who  spurr'd  on  his  foaming  steed 

With  a  desperate  madman's  fiery  speed, 

While  far  beyond,  on  the  level  green, 

A  waving  line  was  distinctly  seen. 

Scarce  had  the  shriek  escaped  her  tongue, 
Ere  to  his  feet  young  Erstein  sprung, 
And  led  the  wearied  steed,  which  bore 
The  fragile  form  of  poor  Lenore, 
Where  a  dark  thicket  rose  in  pride 
The  leaping,  brawling  stream  besida. 


244  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  'Tis  Herman  !  and  the  hour  is  come 
To  seal  or  his  or  Erstein's  doom  ! 
If  victor,  well!  but  if  I  die, 
Thine  only  resource  is  to  fly." 

He  said,  and  press'd  her  hand  the  while 
With  fervent  grasp  and  cheering  smile : 
Then  ere  had  fled  that  earnest  tone, 
The  trembling  maiden  was  alone. 

Meanwhile,  with  fierce  and  maniac  haste, 
The  furious  Herman  forward  press'd, 
Clear'd  the  small  stream  with  sudden  bound, 
And  leap'd  impetuous  to  the  ground. 

Oh,  'twas  a  dark  and  fearful  sight ! 
His  writhing  face  was  ghastly  white  ; 
His  horseman's  cloak  was  deeply  dyed 
With  the  red  life-blood  from  his  side  ; 
His  step  was  hurried  and  untrue ; 
His  scowling  brow  was  bathed  in  dew, 
And  when  he  pass'd  his  fingers  o'er. 
They  left  its  surface  stain'd  with  gore. 

Still  did  his  rigid  features  wear 
Their  darkly  biting,  withering  sneer, 
And  in  his  eye  a  fiendish*  glare 
Revenge  and  hate  had  kindled  there. 
He  wav'd  his  glancing  sword  on  high, 
And  cried,  "  Defend  thy  life,  or  die  !" 
"  I  fight  not,"  Erstein  answered  slow, 
"  A  frantic  or  a  bleeding  foe  !" 

A  demon's  rage  fill'd  Herman's  eye, 
Which  flash' d  around  him  fearfully. 
"  Then  in  thy  coward  folly  die  !" 
Thus  did  he  yell,  and  with  the  word 
Plunged  at  his  breast  his  ponderous  sword. 
The  youth,  who  mark'd  each  look  with  care, 
Turn'd — and  the  weapon  smote  the  air  ; 
Then,  ere  a  second  stroke  was  made. 
Swift  as  the  wind  unsheath'd  his  blade  ; 
And  springing  forth,  with  gesture  light, 
Closed  firmly  in  the  desperate  fight. 

How  did  those  sounds  of  doubt  and  fear 
Ring  on  the  maiden's  listening  ear  ! 
How  did  her  veins  convulsive  swell, 
As,  fast  and  wild,  the  stern  blows  fell ! 
But  passion's  rage  must  yield  at  length 
To  calmer  reason's  vigorous  strength, 
And  Erstein's  steel  again  was  dew'd 
With  the  fierce  Herman's  gushing  blood. 

Breathing  one  quick  and  startling  yell, 
Upon  the  trampled  sward  he  fell, 
And  the  dark  life-stream  gurgling  fast, 
Blent  with  the  dew-drops  on  his  breast, 
And,  as  the  current  swifter  sped, 
Tinged  the  light  sparkling  stream  with  red  I 
His  clench'd  hands  held,  with  rigid  clasp, 
The  turf  and  flowers  within  their  grasp, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  245 

And  the  cold,  clammy,  deathlike  devj 
In  large  drops  gather' d  on  his  brow. 

Then  a  dark  shade  of  fell  despair 

Chased  from  its  glance  its  frenzied  glare, 

And  yielded  to  his  upraised  eye 

A  look  of  helpless  agony  ; 

It  roll'd  around  from  place  to  place, 

And  rested  last  on  Erstein's  face ; 

Then  shrunk  from  the  moment's  encounter  again 

With  a  mingled  thrill  of  remorse  and  pain  ; 

Then  he  strove  to  speak,  but  the  accents  hung 

Unform'd  on  his  quivering,  palsied  tongue. 

Erstein  the  wounded  sufferer  gave 
A  cooling  draught  from  the  crystal  wave, 
And  raising  his  form  on  the  rivulet's  brink, 
Oh  long  and  deeply  did  he  drink, 
Then,  as  o'ercome  with  torturing  pain, 
Sank  on  the  crimson' d  turf  again. 

Convulsions  o'er  his  features  past, 

And,  with  a  fearful  strength,  at  last 

He  started — clench'd  his  blood-stain' d  vest, 

And  groan'd,  "  This  mountain  on  my  breast?" 

Erstein  bent  o'er  him — "  Herman  !  now 

We  stand  no  longer  foe  to  foe ; 

Tell  me,  if  to  one  earthly  thing 

Thy  parting  spirit  still  doth  cling  ; 

One  deed,  which,  ere  thy  race  was  run, 

Thou  wouldst  have  purposed  to  have  done  ; 

One  word  of  penitence  to  send 

An  injured  or  deluded  friend  ; 

And  here  I  pledge  my  promise  free, 

That  act  shall  be  performed  for  thee  ! 

Aught  that  may  cast  a  softening  ray 

Around  thy  spirit's  fearful  way, 

Or  soothe  that  dark  and  drear  abode 

Unbrighten'd  by  the  smiles  of  God!" 

"  Of  God  !     Who  spoke  of  God  ?— I  own 
No  God  but  reckless  chance  alone  ; 
No  hell  more  rife  with  pain  and  fear 
Than  that  which  burns  and  tortures  here  ! 
Though  I  could  sink  to  black  despair, 
If  I  met  not  his  spirit  there  ! 

"  Away,  away  !  each  look,  each  word 
Pierces  my  bosom  like  a  sword ! 
'T  is  thou  whom  I  have  injured,  thou 
Whose  arm,  in  justice,  laid  me  low ! 
Nay,  leave  me  not,  but  come  more  near, 
For  my  breath  fails  me — bend  thine  ear  ! 
And  ere  from  life  for  ever  freed, 
My  soul  shall  boast  one  blameless  deed  ! 
Child  of  a  rich  and  ancient  line, 
Arnheim,  its  titles,  lands,  are  thine  !" 

"  Thou  ravest !" — "  List !  if  there  be  time 
Thine  ears  shall  drink  my  tale  of  crime  ! — 
I  seem'd  thy  father's  friend,  and  he 
Believed  me  all  fidelity; 


246  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

He  perished  in  a  foreign  land, 
And,  Erstein,  by  this  blood-stain' d  hand  ? 
Ay,  shudder  ! — mark  me  well,  and  trace 
The  murderer's  impress  on  my  face  ! 
Yes  !  'neath  a  friend's  disguise,  there  stole 
A  venom'd  serpent  to  his  soul! 
In  youth  he  dared  to  taunt  me— I 
Vow'd  for  the  insult  he  should  die  ! 
"  It's  very  memory  pass'd  from  him  ; 
And  when  in  after  years  I  came, 
Conceal'd  by  friendship's  mask  and  name, 
He  took  me  to  his  bosom,  while 
Revenge  was  lurking  'neath  my  smile. 
He  died  ! — start  not,  but  bend  thine  ear, 
For  I  must  speak  and  thou  shall  hear ! 
Ay,  though  it  rends  my  blacken'd  heart, 
And  tears  each  gaping  wound  apart  I 
"  He  died! — I  sought,  with  keenest  hate, 
The  proofs  of  this  thy  fair  estate  ; 
I  kept  the  parchments,  that  I  still 
Might  guide  thy  fortunes  at  my  will. 
I  hated — for  thy  features  bore 
The  smile,  the  glance  thy  father's  wore. 
"  Avert  that  look  !  the  memory  brings 
A  thousand  thousand  scorpion  stings  ! 
Ay,  ay  !  'tis  right,  'tis  meet  thy  steel 
This  last  and  deadliest  blow  should  deal ! 
'Tis  right  thy  grateful  hand  should  send 
The  death-blow  to  thy  father's  friend! 
"  But  I  must  on  !— I  left  that  shore— 
I  sought  my  native  land  once  more : 
I  join'd  the  robbers'  desperate  band ; 
I  found  the  baron  on  thy  land ; 
'Twas  then  I  saw,  I  loved,  Lenore  ! — 
Oh  heavens  !  and  must  I  tell  thee  more  ? — 
I  play'd  the  baron  false,  and  he, 
The  fool !  the  idiot !  trusted  me  ! 
"  Here,  on  my  cold  and  labouring  breast- 
Raise  me — here,  here  the  parchments  rest! 
But  my  chill'd  limbs  grow  stiff— the  sand 
Of  life  is  running  fast — the  hand 
Of  death  is  plunging  deep  his  icy  dart — 
His  grasp  is  cold — cold — cold  upon  my  heart !" 
The  youth,  with  fix'd  and  wondering  eyes, 
Bent  o'er  his  form  in  mute  surprise  ; 
When  loud,  derisive  laughter  near, 
Burst  in  discordance  on  his  ear. 
He  rose,  and  saw  before  him  stand 
The  dying  Herman's  ruffian  band. 
Returning  from  their  midnight  broil, 
And  laden  with  its  varied  spoil, 
To  their  wild  cave  they  led  in  haste 
The  aged  baron  and  the  priest. 
But  when  in  distance  they  beheld 
Their  leader's  flight,  so  fierce  and  wild, 
They  turn'd,  pursued,  and  came  to  see 
His  last,  expiring  agony ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  247 

And  now,  with  laugh  of  scornful  hate, 
Like  fiends,  they  triumph'd  in  his  fate. 
Those  tones,  with  direst  vengeance  rife, 
Recall' d  their  comrade's  flickering  life. 
With  them  unnumber'd  memories  came — 
Again  he  raised  his  bleeding  frame, 
Gazed  wildly  on  the  furious  band, 
And  shook  his  clench' d  and  stiffening  hand. 
His  cheek  burn'd  with  a  livid  glow, 
A  black  scowl  gather' d  on  his  brow, 
A  fierce  revenge  his  visage  fired — 
He  groan' d,  fell  backward,  and  expired. 

Silence  her  breathless  mantle  threw 

A  moment  o'er  that  lawless  crew, 

And  awe  one  instant  gain'd  the  place 

Of  triumph  on  each  swarthy  face. 

But  as  the  sun-ray  glances  past 

The  rugged  cliff's  unbending  crest, 

So  didjifet  faint  beam  disappear, 

Lost  in  a  dark  demoniac  sneer, 

The  baron  and  the  priest  alone 

With  trembling  heard  that  dying  groan, 

And  mark'd  with  awe-struck  pitying  gaze, 

His  stiffen' d  form  and  ghastly  face. 

Erstein  first  broke  the  silence  dread, 
And  to  the  outlaw 'd  chieftain  said  : 
"  Thou  seekest  spoil !  dost  thou  behold 
This  jewell'd  cross,  this  purse  of  gold? 
These  will  I  gladly  give,  to  gain 
Two  aged  captives  of  thy  train. 
High  ransom  take,  and  yield  to  me 
The  priest's  and  baron's  liberty." 

"  Yon  priest  I  had  design' d  to  save 

The  contrite  sinners  in  our  cave. 

Yon  miser  lord,  to  gather  in 

The  gold  our  midnight  frays  shall  win  ! 

This  had  I  purposed,  but  in  truth 

Thy  sword  hath  served  us  well,  brave  youth, 

By  sending  to  the  fiend,  who  gave, 

The  spirit  of  that  scowling  knave. 

Bestow  on  us  that  glittering  store, 

And  swear  to  seek  our  spoil  no  more, 

Then  will  we  freely  yield  to  thee 

The  aged  captives'  liberty." 

The  pledge  was  given — the  band  released 
The  aged  baron  and  the  priest, 
And  sweeping  round  a  thicket  nigh, 
Their  dark  forms  vanish' d  to  the  eye. 
With  heaving  breast  and  clouded  brow 
The  baron  wander' d  to  and  fro, 
And  wrung  his  hands  with  gestures  wild, 
And  wept  and  cried,  "  my  child !  My  child  !' 

Swiftly  the  youthful  Erstein  fled 
To  the  dark  wood's  embowering  shade, 
And  soon  as  swift  return'd  to  lead 
The  fair  Lenore's  wearied  steed. 


24S  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"With  joyful  cry  and  agile  bound, 
The  maiden  sprang  upon  the  ground, 
And  clasp'd  her  father's  neck  around. 

And  o'er  and  o'er  again  he  press'd 
The  rescued  maiden  to  his  breast, 
And  gazed  upon  her  features  bright 
With  frantic  transports  of  delight. 
"My  child!  my  love!  my  own  Lenore  ! 
Come  to  thy  father's  heart  once  more, 
Nor  fear  that  thou  again  shall  be 
A  living  sacrifice  for  me ! 
But  who  preserved  thee  ?  where  didst  thou 
Find  refuge  on  that  night,  and  how  ?" 

Her  cheek  with  crimson  blushes  warm, 
She  turn'd  her  eye  on  Erstein's  form. 
"  And  by  what  title  shall  I  bless  ?"— 
"  Erstein  !"— He  groan'd — "Alas  !  alas  ! 
It  is  the  very  name,  'tis  he 
Whom  I  have  heap'd  with  injury  ! 
A  voice,  too  long  a  slighted  guest, 
Once  more  is  whispering  in  my  breast ! 
And  I  will  listen — will  obey ; 
How  shall  I  all  these  wrongs  repay  ?" 

The  youth's  dark  eye  beam'd  purest  fire, 

And  his  quick  pulses  bounded  higher. 

Oh  let  me,  let  me  call  thee  sire  !" 

The  baron  bent  his  wondering  gaze 

Upon  the  speaker's  beaming  face  ; 

The  youth  was  at  his  feet — his  brow 

Was  burning  with  a  crimson  glow, 

His  lips  were  parted,  and  his  cheek 

Flush'd  with  the  thoughts  he  could  not  speak. 

And  his  dark  eye  was  raised  above, 

With  mingled  glance  of  hope  and  love. 

He  turn'd  to  Lenore,  and  her  downcast  eye, 
Her  trembling  frame,  her  heaving  sigh, 
Her  cheek,  now  flush'd,  now  deadly  pale, 
In  silence  told  the  maiden's  tale  ! 

"  My  children  DC  happy  !  henceforth  to  your  sire 
Shall  your  peace  be  his  highest,  his  noblest  desire  ; 
He  shall  see  you  enjoy,  with  a  rapture  tenfold, 
Those  affections  he  well  nigh  had  barter'd  for  gold  ! 
And  sorrow's  dark  pinion  shall  shadow  no  more 
The  loves  of  brave  Erstein  and  fair  Lenore." 

1838. 


THE    END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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